In the cab, leaving his apartment at The Faculty Club, Clark thought of it not as a party evening. It would be a record-listening session, an extra, optional class, the last one of the year, and they would hear some of the poetry he taught them.
Clark’s work with the boys was effortless, off the top of his head more or less, for it was material he had been over many times. It was a small class and he let them take their own lead. Still, he taught with particular heart, for nearly all were competent serious students, and one was a beginning writer who worked like hell for Clark and who stirred his feelings very much. Too much in some ways, he was thinking, as the cab turned up the avenue to the college. Clark did not like feeling, except in poems.
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