Miss Page
I remember reading as a boy
But hardly ever being read to,
Though I’m sure it happened
Most days with mom.
I do remember Miss Page,
Our school librarian, reading
To us while we sat
Cross-legged on the floor
Of the old school library.
She held the book splayed open
With the pictures and words
Facing us and the story would spill
From her lips from behind the covers
Like the disembodied voice of a movie narrator.
I didn’t like that very much
Because I knew you had to see
The words to be able to read.
I didn’t care about the pictures
I only wanted to trust
The things I heard.
Well it was a lesson I must
Have taken to heart.
To this day I hold up the story
Of my life for everyone to see
And tell them what’s happening
Before they have a chance
To read what the words actually say
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