(In honor, a day late, of National Punctuation Day, Sept. 24)

It is, by its very nature, a possessive little mark,
one that sidles up to an unsuspecting letter

and puts its curvy little arm around it,
not unlike a boy in a movie theater ages ago,

pretending to yawn, extending his arm,
ending up (how’d that happen?) across

the back of his date’s seat. Apostrophes,
the old flirts, wink. They need to be needed,

tied to another to indicate “belonging to,”
though they don’t ask—just velcro themselves

to the nearest letter, often joining two words
that would otherwise stand apart.

It’s a cuddler, come to think of it, a cat looking
for a lap, a pat, a spot to put its soft self,

wanting to be wanted, an I’m-here-for-you
bit of punctuation just waiting in the wings.