L.R. Harvey Poetry

Wardrobe I am a study in false-starts. I have tried and tried more to keep in separate drawers my work pants from more presentable  slacks, but the two keep sliding back  like hope and grief to make furious love till morning. I walk into my classroom  with paint on my ass, to church with caulk  down my left leg. When I reach  into my pocket for a pen a screw  rams itself up my fingernail and I bleed.  I give up. Tonight I will again  remove the board I so hastily installed  to divide the drawer. I am a walking project.  

The Tinkerer Reflects No one, likely, will ever see  the fresh coat of white  on the back of the doghouse,   the part slid up to the house and invisible unless you drop something important back there and slide it out, which no one will ever do. So I considered,  considering, not wasting white and another hour on my knees for what’s behind and unseen, but man , let me tell you, how good you sleep when you know  that—if you ever needed to re- arrange the garage—you could.