I hear New York’s pages turning, the varied turning I hear
The tourist, struggling through the creases of yesterday’s New York Times
The young teen, catching up on celebrity gossip in the crisp clean smooth pages of Us Weekly, instead of catching the bus
The father, flipping through the Joy of Cooking’s frayed and yellow pages at the kitchen table, pondering what he will make for Passover
The helpless lost sister, digging to the depths of her purse to pull out a dirty MTA subway map, flipped and eyed
The student, sitting with the calm pages of a French textbook in his lap, trying to cram the vast information into his head before first period
The immigrant, furiously rippling through a tiny blue-covered handbook, his fingers ready to turn the next page of his ancient peoples’ history in a far foreign country
The day what belongs to the day, at night the pages turn under the covers, young children can hardly see the tiny words
Turning their pages with a flip swish hand motion.