[He shrugs. Poetry, like so many of the purviews of erudite, educated men, stirs a kernel of resentment in him. It reminds him of his father, locked away in the library with volumes of Homer and Ovid and a bottle of liquor they'd outlaw a decade too late, in Jason's opinion.

Or his brother, rotting now at the bottom of a river in Cambridge.]

If you can find me a poem that isn't some tedious mulling over mythological figures or the measure of a man's soul, it might be alright. But I wouldn't say I'm keen on it. Why, do you write it?