A random basic blank book,
patient on the desk.
A dozen more of these around
the house:

commonly given to writers
as gifts, often left half-finished
or (as noted above)
completely untouched.

I think we prefer them this way —

promises, opportunities,
comfortably empty and 
unthreatening.  
This way you can say

they’re ready for “the masterpiece”
instead of seeing them as
false starts or proof of your
literary fraud.

What is your friend thinking

when he gives you one?
Is it genuine, is it 
mockery?  A desire
to see you succeed,

to someday read
what you may pull
from the paper?  Or is it
instead a dare and a challenge?

Neither is enough, most days.