L. R. Harvey writes to provide a glimpse into the Mystery. His most recent poetry
has appeared in Red Eft Review, Better Than Starbucks, Light: A Journal of
Photography and Poetry
, The Road Not Taken, and more than a dozen other
magazines/publications. He currently holds a BA in English, an MA in Teaching,
and is beginning his pursuit of his MFA in creative writing this summer.

A Neglected Stroller

Broadside along the bridge on Broad, it gazes
on abandoned train rails running beneath
while up above red Buicks carry ladies
deep in conference calls and lukewarm tea.
I cut my dashboard radio, hoping to hold
the cradle's silence, but by that time it's passed
into my rearview and the garret of my soul
that ponders things like baby carriages
left rotting beside the road.
It will not tell
its secrets, as shuttered as Miranda's Books
across the yellow lines. It needn't tell—
it's told enough by being there, looking
out over the steel railing, perpendicular
to Broad Street's concrete veins. Its presence claims,
How can an abandoned stroller
run parallel to anything?

First Frost

Night before,
the dirty cotton-balls will perch
along the wire,
their ping-pong heads deep tucked
inside their feather coats.
will anxiously sip their decaf at
the kitchen table, their minds
gone moling down rows and up roots
with warm thoughts,

and soon the cars will hobble down
the street like frosted old men
who forgot to shave.

sits cold and thick
as an eager audience,
waiting for the magician
to perform the trick
of diamonds sprinkled on
our heads.

Saturday Morning

Blankets, books, and rain,
coconut coffee creamer frothing white
on top my white clay mug, and steam.

The way a morning invites
a silence deep as that from which
I have again emerged,
slowly, painfully, and not by choice.
It balances on a pin-prick, wavers.

I will not dare to breath until
the coffee cools and she gets up
to squeak the shower faucet—I will
not be the catalyst of chaos, disrupt

the glassy surface of the day,
wrinkle the wholeness of beginnings.

Reason for the Season

Face-up beneath the boughs
the world is sticky, green,

and "off a little left."
The scent of peppermint

from Gracie's tea-steam wraps
itself around the branches,

spiraling its way
inside the needle-space—

I know the lights will lack
this self-sufficiency,

rolled up in coils on
the floor, waiting for me.

The screws won't tighten right,
or left, and "just a hair back"

is the needle breaking mine:
Just stop, it's fine! I shout

amid the scent of evergreen,
but nothing really is—

It's all just sticky, off
a little to the left.

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