L.R. Harvey Poetry

INTERSTATE I’ve come to appreciate a bit  of a commute, much the way I like my hall ways long between rooms.  Nice as it sounds to have it all  conveniently here, sheer open- concept, some of us soon accept  we don’t need any help mucking  our lives into one,  indefinable jumble, no thresholds to stop our tumble into the long blur. It comes at a cost, sure, but so does any th ere   worth making towards.

STAY ON YOUR GUARD He worked as if each hair mattered,  as if it didn’t matter that I had to be  somewhere by five, which I let slide  somewhere around the right ear. Right here ,  he explained, is the lost art of the part ,  though we didn’t part for forty minutes yet, his fingers in no hurry to measure length, width, and breadth. What is a look, a life, but the thick mound of thin decisions  made at the end of a pruning knife? In some trades it's wiser not to rush. And then around the side-burns the razor slipped. Shit . Give us this day our daily grip, because lord , how quickly i t can go from here to there, how sickeningly swift— regardless the furrowed brow, how meticulous till now— it can all be laid bare.

FEELING FOR A PULSE So you’ve stumbled into a body and don’t know what to do. Us too.  There's no staggering off to alert the authorities: it's just you here, for better and worse, both ambulance and hearse. And as no one will tell you what or why, give yourself a good cry a nd then try toeing it firmly in the ribs.  If it stands up and begins  folding the laundry mounded  on the corner chair, re-lacing  an old pair of work boots like there's plenty of work ahead, you can rest at ease that you're dealing with the deceased.  The dead are those who know there’s always more dying to do, and no time like now to do it. Best wipe your brow and pitch in. No saving this one.  It's gone, and bent on going again.

THE STAKES Well it's not a free-for-all, meaning you can absolutely miss the beat a nd get it wrong. Sure, it’s all music, but past a tasteful discord you've a bad  song. On the other end of the scale,  this isn’t a recital either, no complicated piece composed by someone else for you to piece together by next week, or else. Have you seen  how many keys a piano has, how many  loves layered in the chord of every face?  Loosen those strings a bit. If you insist on being overwhelmed, fine, but maybe try staying up at night agonizing over just how many ways there are to play it right.