The Facebook Dead
Ace Boggess

They smile from mausoleum frames—
years gone, months, one earlier today.
My screen keeps the plasma light of life in them:
selfie memorials never yellowing,
torn by wind, wildlife, bat-wielding teens.

I must have read their statuses of bad days,
life events, dating, pets, & meals.
Their poems found me waving with lantern &
laser pointer, nodding as if to say, Well done.

I wished most happy birthday, joked with many for a line or two.
Now, they lack a sense of humor, taunt me by popping up
in harsh reminders: four years ago, you became friends with X.

Someone stuck in the absurd not-having-heard comments
on an old post which conjures itself in my feed as if reanimating.
We have reached an age we carry graveyards with us.