Blank Page

I looked at the empty page sitting before me and knew something was up. It was 9am, normally the page would be filled with text, an empty blank space suddenly brimming with poetry of a sort, and I’d be smoking my second cigarette of the day. The coffee would be lukewarm, sitting at the side of the typewriter like a small muddy puddle in a cup. An old record would be playing in the other room, something calm, like a Cuban band instrumental or a slower-paced Stan Getz record. But none of that was happening this morning. Instead I had a blank page.