Off the Grid

I never travel anywhere Without my book at hand For jotting down my daily poem, No matter what I’ve planned. For likely I will have a thought I must commit to rhyme And therefore I must be prepared At any place and time. My little book must fit inside The shoulder bag I tote, Along with sharpened pencils To preserve the words I note. I keep an eye out looking for More books to fit the bill, A task that, most surprising, Isn’t easy to fulfill. For just today, I came upon Some notebooks in a stack With varied colored covers Small and portable to pack. Alas, though, where I’d hoped for lines, On every page, instead, Were tiny boxes, in a grid, An unappealing spread. I wonder who would choose to write On all those mini-squares, Just waiting to entrap some words And catch them unawares.