I’ve learned to despise poetry. It started the day you took off. All that unrhymed crap misplaced in unhinged margins that you would beg me to read to you under the covers. It is now impossible for me to read even one poem without wanting to yank a tooth out. The hair went a long time ago. That started when you disappeared to who knows where. I must hand it to you, though—you took your sweet time conjugating my soul, but once you completed the assignment, you neglected to put me back together again. How is that for poetic justice?
— Fred Vogel