He sat at the small, worn table tucked under the window in his small, tidy living room. Harvey (not Harry) Potter was composing another poem to the love of his life, the apple of his eye, the sun to his sunrise.
The one, the only, Ellen Davis, desk clerk of the Victorian.
Everyday for the 10 years he's worked in this building, he has written a love something to her but never delivered it. The first one he wrote, he did slip it onto the corner of the desk, but somehow it was displaced and ended up on the floor. People coming in and out didn't notice Harvey's love as they walked over it, smudging it with every step.
Later, as he was sweeping, he found it crumpled and dirty. He carefully tucked into his uniform pocket. Since then, he's stacked them neatly into the desk drawer.
In the calm light of the evening,
I see you seated there
From your hair
to your toes
Your beauty shows.
The dust may settle in the corners
of the desk,
in the hall,
but I will love you
most of all.
He stopped for a moment, looked up and out of the window to see the shadow develop into the evening. Then his tiny desk lamp quit and he heard the love of his life call his name.
"Harvey! The power's out again! Get your lazy self in here, now!"
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