We are what’s left of the graduating class
of depression, dysphoria, and despair.
We hold our reunions graveside,
our fight song is “Taps.”
Our suicides are not surprises;
every year is a bonus year.
We keep Mad Libs goodbye notes in our pockets
like drafts of valedictorian speeches:
“Dear _____, I’m _______, but I can’t go on.
I didn’t mean for it to end like this, but tell ______ I _______ them.”
We signed Jenny’s guestbook:
have a good summer, we’ll be in touch soon.
She was our Most Likely to Succeed;
I suppose that held true.
Look to your side, look to your other side,
if the seats are empty—
Josh Smith has a career held together by spit, duct tape, and whimsy. No one else on Earth has both a Harvard education, and a pair of Iffy Awards for Best Hair.