All the pages of all the books

are blank.

It’s a big secret.

The readers say nothing about it

to each other.

On my block

every house is a library.

There are lights.

Late into the night

severe women

enforce complete silence.

I’ve been reading so much

my eyes hurt.

It’s a book on astronomy,

or perhaps a book on the architecture

of prisons.

Across,

the free thinker’s taking notes

furiously.

At the exit,

my father’s checking out

a little volume

the size of a breviary.

I know I’m much older than he.

I have grey hairs,

wear a shabby overcoat,

will lick my forefinger

before I turn

the next page.