I am not a capitol letter

There is no merit in my bones

No salute at the ready, when I arrive

Not even the prestige of a lower case soldier

Is mine

 

I am not the bold exclamation point

With his picketed sign and megaphone

Demanding to be heard

And he is, with all his affirmation

Like thunder shakes the rain

 

I am not a question mark

The great philosopher

Brewing questions of how, or why, or what

To steep in thought

Until the drought is heavy, the drink deep

 

I am not the conclusive period

Standing like a judge’s gavel

His eyes matter-of-fact

His very presence a statement

Unfaltering

 

I am the subtle, silent comma

The brief pause before the clock hand ticks

Overlooked or forgotten often

Or spliced in jittered nerves like a stumbled step

A small curl of smudged ink