Sometimes the tallying starts on its own. Whose garden looked better. Whose children call more often. Whose name was mentioned at the convention, while yours went unnoticed.
We keep such a record and hide it.
Except for one man. 400 years ago, one summer, when the theaters were closed and his luck had run out, he wrote down his tally in fourteen lines. We know those lines by heart. They were written in response to an insult.
And the sweetest revenge in poetry still lurks within them
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