The Pioneer Press calls him slain barkeeper.
The Star Tribune says he leaned
out the window of his car door in the dark
of a winter morning and it caught him
in the throat. Start with basic shapes, and shade.
My high school drawing teacher was shot
by a boy he never met. He drew
with thick strokes, dark and purposeful.
He had a habit of sometimes jumping
on the table to get our attention.
He had wide hands, smudged
with charcoal, and he’d always ask
before he’d touch your paper. Measure
with the end of your pencil, he’d say.
The boy who did it covered
his license plate with a paper towel,
drove drunk and angry. In the dark, he shot
at wolves and deer, thought he heard
someone else’s gunshot. He said
he was afraid, after. He’d aimed at cars,
didn’t know if he’d hit somebody.
He thought about turning the gun on himself.
His lawyer said He had no idea. The papers say
sobs were audible throughout the hearing. There are no
rulers in art class; real life doesn’t measure out
like that. The boy shot dusky lead into the night
from his silver spilled passenger,
from bullets tumbling around his car
like sticks of graphite.