The first man I killed was myself,
deskbound,
hunched above translated lines
of Lysistrata–
annotated phrases hastily scrawled
in chicken-scratched shorthand–
my goal to gain footholds
as footnotes unfolded suggestive
puns camouflaged in obscure syntax:
“Kinesias’s name translates
to Dick Rodington” I write,
a gruesome sight to behold:
my fingertips,
trenched in thin red lines
by loose leaf paper,
were flesh wounds—
academic Purple Hearts
identified
by flesh-toned band aids.
Ink blots tattooed my forefinger,
each splotch denoted well-read
reports regarding ancient action
along the Peloponnesean peninsula.
The propaganda’d fooled me:
I fought for upward mobility
while digging my own grave.
The second man I killed was myself,
the immature, self-deprecating idiot
who believed himself bright,
whose wit was kindergarten clever,
whose empirical knowledge was hearsay,
who’d survived on oodles and noodles, deviled ham,
microwavable MREs, government cheese, and WIC.
I observed his corpse in old photos,
its taut skin reflecting sunlight,
its pursed lips terrified of its teeth.
The old me is the young me;
the young me’s getting old.
The third man I killed was the fool
who’d trotted across a stage
and shook hands with a provost
believing himself transformed.
He bled out in overtime,
in double shifts half asleep,
working twice as hard
for half the reward;
a dimming echo,
our generation.
So, college was a pyrrhic victory.
I gained ground at tremendous cost,
bought a small house of learning
but lost a houseful of family.
I have a career now.
My old friends–
who aren’t friends–
merely have jobs.
And who do you think is happy?