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She said my poems had emotion in them
as if they might have syphilis.
Hers, she said, were ironically distanced,
questioning the things they spoke of
as if they weren’t quite real.
As if all we’d always believed
was some kind of sham and language
was itself a kind of lie.
Then one day I saw her sobbing
in the parking lot at Starbucks.
I wondered how irony could be so cruel.
Copyright 2022 Doug Anderson