From where I sit I can see
Some five or six relaxing books.
With sleak, black skins they wait for me.
I reach for one and take a look
At notes, scribbles, and jots.
Page smooth and thick, pen dark and deep.
Unbind the tie, begin a line,
A swirling language marks the spot
Where once some words were wont to seep.
A book is just a book unless it's Moleskine.
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