A book, chosen amongst the others,
looked down upon with curious eyes.
The thumbprints cling to the pages’ edges
and flip once, slow, twice, thrice, faster, four, five, six,
beyond numbers, only catching snatches of the story:
some word that begins with “r,”
a name, a place, no one you’ve ever known or no place you’ve ever been to,
and you have no interest in knowing or going—this is someone else’s life.

Pages flip, ink screams then quiets—
pause at the binding break—
flip, flip, flip, thin, slow, slower, thin,
the last page.

The eyes read the last line out of curiosity and don’t know what it means.

The book is replaced, back with the others.
The eyes have a brain that will forget
the place on the shelf,
the word that begins with “r,”
the name, the place,
the picture on the front,
the color of the book,
the book entirely,
because it’s just another story
of another life
like all of the others.