Just a note to say I’m sorry,
wondering if you’re still alive.
You’re nowhere near the top of my list of lifetime regrets
but I’ve been working my way through the list
making reasonably good progress,
groveling,
whining,
begging,
and pretty much making a spectacle of myself,
and now I’ve come to you.
I have no idea why I sat in the back of the class
goofing off with the fuckups
fucking up with the goof offs
pretending to ignore you,
but I suppose I have to consider the possibility
that the reason is
that I’m a fuckup myself.
You were so earnest,
so sincere about the language you tried to pass on,
the poetry
the grammar
the stories
that I am now ashamed
of the disappointments I brought to you.
I remember when you asked us each to memorize a sonnet
and to recite it to you, one on one.
When I sat with you and you got enthusiastic about the sonnet I had selected,
I saw your face fall when you asked me why I chose it
and I told you that I had picked it at random.
You told me you had hoped that I would select a sonnet that moved me in some way.
I know teaching is a hard job
and you must have gone home some days
and thrown your keys onto the floor
and wondered why you bothered
with jackasses who played in the back
pushing pens into each other’s arms
to show how tough they were
instead of concentrating on your lessons.
All I can tell you is that if I had it to do again,
I would recite two sonnets to you, each chosen for its meaning,
I would rescue you when no one in the class
would speak up and identify the predicate nominative on the board,
I would let you know how much I reflected on the stories you assigned to us.
I hope you are still alive.
I hope you get this letter.
It was I who wrote the limerick about you that you found taped to the wall.
Sorry, Miss Ample.