Apostrophe to the Apostrophe

Small floater, you stay above the fray,

a wink at nothing's nod, a raised brow

watching p's and q's, a selfless mote

between I and m, a little horn of plenty

spilling plurals, disdaining the bottom line.

Unlike your twin relatives—groupies of wit

and wisdom, hangers on in the smallest talk—

you work alone, dark of a crescent moon.

Laboring in obscurity, you never ask why,

never exclaim, never tell anyone where to go.

Caught up between extremes, you are both

a turning away and a stepping forth,

a loss and an addition. You are the urge

to possess everything, and the sure sign

that something is missing.