My poetry class fell in love with you too. It might have taken them a few more stanzas than it took me.

So a revised version of my poem "Classroom Map" got into Grub Street, Towson's literary magazine, which apparently is Award-Winning. Aren't we all. (Not really so much their website.)

This poem has a few familar characters in it. I appear in it a few times as various people, that kid who always wanted to start a band in high school is in it, Matt Riley is in it, and of course, another important person in my life. My class loved it, and my professor loved it. Kenny Johns loved it, which is saying something, and Liz Laribee had some nice things to say, and had some suggestions I tried to incorporate.

A lot of potential

Cash thrown at your sister to attend the school of her choice,
you know, the one with the stone buildings
and the same history professor
as when your grandfather went there.

A local band at last opening for their heroes,
who are always named something too intense,
like Lovedrug or Copeland or Showbread.
They’ll outplay the headliner tonight, in their big chance.

A 6’ 7” lefty with a fiery heater and wicked hook
and an evil look that would make
Mickey Mantle Himself quiver in his spikes.
He’s only 20 and in the big leagues already.

And most of all, the girl across the hall
with the Technicolored eyes and kind voice.
The one who smells like pot, speaks French,
enjoys pottery and kisses as soft as she smiles.

But your sister meets a frat boy, drinks too much
and drops out by March.

The frontman quits and tries to go solo,
and the band never leaves the garage.

The lefty can't throw strikes, hurts his golden shoulder,
and opens a used car dealership.

And the girl across the hall starts to kiss other boys,
boys in bands,
boys who speak French with her over a glass of wine.
Another family fills her old apartment,
leaving your team in last place for another year.

And with that, spring break has begun for me. I'll be going to such exotic places as Gettysburg, PA and probably Frederick, MD. You will all envy my tan when I get back.

Love,
Charlie