I remember him in my class
where he drove me crazy,
and managed to pass.
I sit at his wake,
from which he will not,
until.
I wait for answers
which will not come,
until.

How to grade a life?
That porous line between an

A, for astounding,
or the anesthetic from which
there is no awakening.

B, just below the lowest A
or the burial mound beside
the tombstone.

C, for a chance to change lanes
on a speeding freeway,
or the closed coffin, carried
down a narrow path, in silence,
but for the sobs,

D, for not doing enough to not die.

F, for failure to face the first
question of life:

how to live it.

I sit, praying.
I’ve torn up my record book.
Only God can grade a life.