Women are punctuations of grammar.
A flowing dress moving along a sidewalk will always need a period, comma, or question mark. The sight of the hem of her slip, disorder among the breeze, or without a slip revealed by the x-ray Sun demands an exclamation point. A raised eyebrow, for when she stops to talk to you. Quotations cannot represent the meanings of her words as the warm day becomes a summer evening of kisses, sipping Bloody Marys, and being alive to share this beauty and steal her olive and cocktail onion.
A man writes with mortar, labors upon blank spaces. Buys drinks. Builds sidewalks where he hopes she passes in sunlight, and stay with him past twilight. With eyebrow raised, he takes her hand while an evening breeze reveals her hem. Through all the novels, plays, and poems, all the wings made of wax that did not last and melted away, a life like Prometheus flying into the Sun, he steals her olive and cocktail onion. To her it is now less tasty, less the full delight of her Bloody Mary left with just a celery stalk, undone, and lacking frills.
She is pouting. Looking into the poet eyes of E.E. Cummings she proclaims; “You’re just a writer with no punctuation skills.”