Let's workshop this poem about a man's emotional infidelity as signaled less by his plan to call a lady without his wife knowing than by his hollow grasp of the call's justification: the lady's tweet
Cram Session
The plan to cold call
his DM pal while his wife
showers, just to praise
her brave tweet—
that only mumbled
the iniquity roared
in that, as spotlit
by what-if worries of pressure
to spell out the praise,
he could not remember
her point beyond
it being controversial.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)