The typewriter left you cold
A story never told
No fingers there to hold
Nothing about you is bold
There is much you envy
The others have so many
Footnotes on page twenty
Words wrote so lengthy
And left you without one
And when readers are done
The page turner is stunned
To find you were shunned
No numbers, no index
Just blank and perplex
Ironically complex
Emptiness you flex
Yet on your tabula rasa
I could trip to Mombasa
Perhaps write of my casa
Or the Madagascar fossa
So much potential
Here without credential
Yet very essential
Meant to be confidential
Maybe write of war
Upon your page the gore
A battle that keeps score
Blood washed ashore
Maybe write about me
Start my biography
Begin my adventures at sea
Or an article on foreign tea
I could almost wage
While no help backstage
You are one for the age
Inconspicuous, this page
Even though it’s true
I need some time to brew
Let this business stew
Regarding what to do
However, to be clear
I could put words here
Words I hold dear
Makes my heart steer
Maybe there’s something to it
Perhaps the author expressed wit
Or the editor cut quick
Threw some words in the pit
Whatever was the case
There’s plenty of extra space
To ponder the mysterious ways
Of this curious blank page
