This is a picture, not a pigture—
mouths like little crescents of weather,
jokes raining magenta, catching in the collarbones.

A reed wakes up in the green-blue sleeve,
breath travels through its maze and returns as yes.
Someone’s eyebrow keeps time,
someone’s shoulder is a cymbal politely shimmering.

Hypothesis: the punchline is a bridge.
Counter-hypothesis: the bridge is a punchline.
Synthesis: we cross anyway, mid-air,
carrying our names in paper pockets.

Lines flicker—ink kites tugging at the white.
Color leans where laughter leans,
and the room becomes an instrument
played by the angle of our faces.

Hold this moment by the corner.
It will wrinkle, it will hum,
and when you open it later
three bright chuckles will fall out.