Notebook

elpintogrande~chucknotes2

She is full and rich in my hands. We are
allied by timeworn furrows. She follows
me far and wide. She lies waiting inside
my deep pockets for my thoughts to be scribbled
across her bleached pages, in black inky specks.
Dreams weaved into meandering maxims.
This is my notebook. There are many like her but this one is mine.

Employed to record snippets of discourse,
eavesdropped outside the grocery shop,
‘He had a face like a daredevils knee’
Paperclips holding articles from the
Guardaian, about Himmler’s love letters
to his loyal, anti-Semitic wife.
Riddles and squiggles, revised cadences,
Lists and lists of bits and bobs crossed out.
This is my notebook. There are many like her but this one is mine.

Fingerprints, coffee stains, my signature
again and again and again. Shopping
lists, recipes. half written verses of
poems long forgotten that can always
be returned to. Favourite words, eager,
asperous, still, comely, redolent, lilt.
This is my notebook. There are many like her but this one is mine.

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