Whistling Past the Graveyard of Grammar

I stroll at dusk through Syntax Cemetery, hands in pockets,

whistling a tune in C major:

the key of confidence.

Headstones lean at questionable angles:

Here lies the Run-On, shot mid-marathon.

RIP Comma Splice -

two independent clauses who loved too recklessly.

A pale apostrophe floats by, moaning about possession.

I tip my hat.

“Your haunting is noted,” I say,

checking that my its isn’t wearing someone else’s coat.

The wind rattles dangling modifiers from the iron fence,

they cling to the nearest noun like nervous party guests.

Somewhere, a split infinitive tries to boldly defend itself.

I whistle louder.

Past participles rise like fog, irregular and unapologetic.

I nod respectfully;we all have our tense moments.

The trick, I’ve learned, is not to fear the dark;

just bring a flashlight shaped like a question mark

and a map labeled “Context.”

Because grammar is less graveyard, more garden,

trimmed with care, fertilized by revision,

occasionally overrun by my enthusiastic weeds.

Still, I walk on, whistling,

not to mock the rules, but to remember them -

one careful step past every almost mistake.

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This poem is the second line from one of my earlier poems, that poem was made up of incomplete sentences, that somehow made great titles.

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Christopher Reilley Poems