I used to carry a composition notebook
in which to write
and I was often out at small clubs
late at night
listening to music
while I would write my little notes
in my horrible little scribble.

On more than one occasion,
I’d leave my notebook alone, unattended.
This was never wise.
It could have been stolen
and ransomed
back to me
for many’s times its value.
Of course, to look at my handwriting,
anyone would assume I was an intellectually challenged fifth grader.
Not much revenue available from that kid.
So usually, my book remained unmolested
but occasionally, I found a page
torn out of the book
so someone could have desired scrap paper for their own wanton purposes.

This never failed to piss me off.
There’s the obvious: it’s my fucking property.
Don’t vandalize it.
Beyond that, though,
There’s the sanctity of my writing apparatus
I want it to be purely my creativity
with no other additions.
Worst of all, ripping the pages
severs the spine of the notebook.

The page you rip at the back
cuts out a page in the front.
The structural integrity of my book is fucked with.
Don’t fuck with my book, stranger!

If I see the act in process
(I never do),
I slap the hand that rips,
thus protecting my property,
making me a hero.

Many a notebook
had been ruined
by my failure.

Now I use electronics
and I need never fail
in that way
ever again.
Have other things been lost?
Perhaps
but security has been maintained.

We have that, at least.