In my desk, third row, second seat from the back.
I silently cried when I learned of Simon’s still body in the sand.
Puzzled who could murder Myrtle and how Gene could jounce the limb.
A static-filled voice whispered “Alas” while I crept without courage
in the grass. Wandered aimlessly through the streets of New York.
Mired in two plagued families, I saw the television news and felt
prepped and desensitized.

Oklahoma City might as well been Camp Repose. Columbine was the domain of the Beastie. Even Ground Zero resembles Golding’s great scar.

Could they have known that my life would echo my homework?
Preparing me to close the books and walk out that door.

In my desk, third row, second seat from the back, I wonder. Does
history dictate great prose. Or vice versa.