One Page at a Time

The Page

I like the steady pace of reading—following the linear track,then turning one page at a time no matterhow electrifying the story.

Even if I actually believe I am Hester Prynneand feel her terrible shame setting my own shame on fire,it's one page, then another, odd, even, odd, until the end.

But sometimes I wonder if what's really importantisn't happening on another page,just as I sometimes suspect that lifeis happening somewhere else,especially on weekend nights around eleven.

I don't want to consider a parallel universewhere I am reading only the crucial sceneswhile sitting upside-down at a table attached to the ceiling.

But maybe a cage-like elevator is slowly ascendingon a page I have already read and forgottenor on a page I will read in a few minutesand remember only because I warned myself about the elevator,

gave myself the heads-up, you might say,just like the guy on a cornerwho just flicked a cigarette into the curbing

signaling the other guys to pull their capsdown over their eyes and start doing the bad thingsI can hardly wait for them to doas I read about the adventures of some detective,with one of those detective names, one riveting page at a time.

Dictionary

You, always lying open on the desknext to a blank page

or one crisscrossed with words—here's to your steady companionship

and way you nudge me tugboat-likeout of a calm harbor into the chop of open water.