A few weeks ago, I visited a contemporary art museum in Boston with the same friends, where we saw a poem with a completely different meaning when read forwards and backwards. I tried it out myself by writing a poem about a real incident, where we sprinted from the Boston Science Museum to our dorm, breaking my backpack strap in the process. The backpack was fine in the end, since I tied the strap into a really cursed knot that somehow held together perfectly. Writing this kind of poem is definitely no trivial feat. It's a bit like the shoelace formula.