The Page Turner

The Page Turner

Coated in darkness,
The silent page turner sits,
Hands folded in lap like intricate origami,
Back off the chair’s wall,
At attention.

Blossoming melodies absorb the air,
Chord progressions swirl,
He watches the music in fascination,
Following each note and rest,
Waiting.

The time is coming near,
Any moment now,
The final bars are eaten up,
The master’s head gives a nod,
It is time.

He reaches over the book of voices,
Like a wave over a sandy beach,
Flips quickly and righteously
And relieved sits back in his cold, hard chair
It is done.

Confident with his completed work,
He subtly weaves his fingers,
And gazes out at the glistening lights,
He is earning a standing ovation,
Bowing proudly.

The tails flip up behind him,
He sits on cushy bench,
Cracks finger joints with pleasure,
Swarms ears with marvelous wonder,
Wows the crowd.

Suddenly, he is back in the cold, hard chair,
Shocked at the reality of the false,
And then finds horror beyond what is known,
As he scans cornucopia of black and white,
He is lost.


Terrified and ashamed,
He glances from flying hands to page,
And back again until nausea takes fear’s place,
Drowning in hopeless, dark despair until,
A head nods.

With this signal he snaps out of his trance,
Instinctively gets up and turns page,
The master goes on with his motions,
All is right again as he thinks,
While watching.

On a pin-tipped edge of his maturing brain,
Is a thought he ponders while following,
Maybe one day he would sit on cushy bench,
Fingers weightless and flying,
With his own page turner.