April 29: Blank?

Maybe no writing
of a poem today, for the prompt
goes sideways: 'total blank,'
and that's what I am, pulled like taffy
stretched too thin
in that shop on the boardwalk,
the ocean outside, relentless
in the early spring afternoon.

I keep hoping for inspiration,
wanting to take that unexpected leap
into what? A total blank?

Where does art hide
when we wish it to smooth
those rough edges?
Don't