AuthorPhillip Losquadro

DateSpring 2019

I had a notebook once,

a sturdy little thing

with a strong cover

made of black leather, probably fake,

and a metal clasp

that closed with a satisfyingly crisp sound,

and bronze­-gold edging

on the pages where I wrote out

my name in looped cursive

and lyrics to songs

I still know well

and plenty of scribbles

and long, lovely words

(some courtesy of my father’s thesaurus)

that struck me as necessary,

organized into lines

I called poetry.

It was more or less

a part of my daily wardrobe:

beanie, scarf, jacket, sweater,

jeans, boots, and notebook.

I took it wherever I could,

in class and on the bus,

to Grandma and Poppy’s

each Sunday,

to rehearsals for the school play,

and of course to the walking trails

behind the public library

that I shuffled through with friends.

I even took it,

a year and then some

after first breaking it in,

on the eight-­hour plane ride to Italy,

and on that plane

it stayed.


I like to think

that having been so loved,

nearly every one of its pages filled

from black binding to golden trim

with the scars of sophomore year,

and wholly saturated

with all the collected wisdom

of a teenage boy,

it, too, sought freedom