She’ll pick him an asterisk

or a comma or two; full

stops, ideas tied off in

neat packages, have always

eluded his dialogue,

circumvented an outcome.

.

Her dreams have become dangling

participles, unfinished

pages with Schubert’s flavour,

unable to hold hyphen’s

place – waiting, always waiting,

a watched pot that never boils.

.

Phrases, nuances, shadings

of meaning get bogged down, dragged

through the spittle of run-on

sentences; she slams the door

on the argument, her shoes

leaving angry editing

marks on the stairs. Period.