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.