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.