The Mount of Misused Commas
A teacher flees, screaming down
a hillside we call ‘The Mount of Misused Commas’,
a whole novel of the buggers scuttling behind.
We laugh and make ironic jokes,
speaking in spliced sentences, tapping
Morse code on each other like ellipses.
But the seasons might be changing, and from here
the half-dressed branches seem to be propping up
the sky like it were a casket, trying to hide the strain.
Some of us have to go home, to crawl
into the cosy parentheses of family life.
The rest just sit around on yellowing books.
Pathetic and Fallacy embrace behind a hedge.
In empty alleys it’s hard to trust our nature.
And pretty soon our curfews reel us in.
As we sleep, the teacher’s lamentations
drop like someone tossing litter, rustle
and echo round the polished glass of our brains.