prompt: write – without consulting the book – a poem that recounts the plot, or some portion of the plot, of a novel that you remember having liked but that you haven’t read in a long time.

I had only seen a few of them at the time
Penises, that is
And I wondered - was Vonnegut exaggerating when he described
That poor character?
Or was it really
That cumbersome.
Because I'd been told
"The bigger the better"
By my peers.
Later, in my 20's
I dated a very nice young man
With a cock the girth of which was eerily like the one I'd read about
In Breakfast of Champions
And I tried, I really did
To love him anyway
But my God was that painful!
So like any normal
Well adjusted 20 something
I ghosted him.
What a dick!