Progress Report

My nephew's got that look again,

the one that comes from red-inked pens.

I found my own from ninety-four,

inside a box upon the floor.

'Needs improvement,' the rubber stamp said,

a bleeding patch of angry red.

It’s soaked into the manila grain,

a permanent mark, a little stain.

The 'C' is carved like a jagged wound,

the kind of debt that’s never through.

Thirty years of the same old grade,

of working hard and getting played.