L.R. Harvey Poetry

After the Screened-in Porch     "when a man goes out to fight for the truth he should never wear his best pants."  What he knows now about tiling  is that sparks flying from the whir of a wet saw means it's plumb out of water, if you happen to be a fan of firm ground mix the thin-set anything but thin, and best do it with a little brother while the two of you float  the tenor to “A King is Coming to Town,” sure it sets right before Sunday’s Christmas  choir. What he knows now about raising daughters, how to bear   with a friend the unbearable weight of cradled air, how  to square the bend of his thoughts  before they’re too stiff  to shift? Again, just odds and chipped ends, so he has no plans of getting out of here anything less than covered in the stuff.

Repair is the Endless Possibility He double-checked the main was off but forgot how snakes will thrash  for minutes after shoveling off  their heads, how docs insist to remind you the strep will slither back if you hack short the antibiotic. So when he spent his Sabbath in the nook beneath the cupboard,  he swapped the dishwasher’s pump  just fine, but there was still water  enough in the line between  the main and the sink to flood  the kitchen while he labored  at the source. He emerged as one rejoicing not to scrub the dishes anymore,  his towel now free to tackle the floor.

The Tinkerer Works on Himself No taste for cucumber, squash,  but he sows a handful each March  to see if he can train himself  up a trellis, as if maybe  it’s as simple as you just start  doing the type of things  the person you want to be  does. Like maybe smiling  is the best way to become  one of those approachable people,  or not talking so much a sure step toward the contemplative  type. But then, come every July,  he remembers he forgot again to label the seeds of the self he is and the one he'd like to be, finds a thatch of vine so thick he can’t track back   which is which.