The book was blank, all the words fell out.
Their black, bold, sans serif letters
pasted onto the white wall,
creating a new language entirely its own.
Certain sentences strung together;
the periods, commas, and semicolons
congregated by the door,
jamming the apostrophes under the frame,
hoping they could get out, somehow.
Explanation points bounced off
of each plane, energetic and turbocharged.
Question marks stood to the side,
pondering the philosophy of this concept.
There was an army of punctuation guard dogs.
The young words drifted towards the floor,
to be together like hip and hop.
The older words grew in patches up top,
to be together like wrinkles and medication.
If an adjective was uncomfortable in his spot,
say, by the window, then he’d trade spaces
with his antonym. After a while, this did not
seem to work and made sentences like,
“The fat dog won the marathon,”
Dots off the ‘i’’s and crosses from the ‘t’’s
clung to the fluorescent ceiling lights
like bugs on a winter night.
The book stayed purposeless, empty.