"Perhaps this one?" Harvey was beside himself with hope. He knew that this was his chance to finally get her attention. The reporter looked tired and kept looking at his phone.
"Well, maybe, Mr. Potter, but space is limited for this spread. Can you tell me more about how you came to this place?"
"It was destiny. Oh, maybe that poem would be better." He quickly moved back to the table, slightly bumping the edge and sending several notebooks to the floor. The reporter merely looked down at them. Harvey looked up and handed him the poem.
Life ended when I came here,
but began again when I saw your face.
All loneliness, longing and fear
faded away without a trace.
As I move through my day
I feel your constant gaze.
Our dreams collide and stay
together until the end of days.
The reporter looked up. Harvey cleared his throat, and said, "Well, it was one of the early ones. I was learning the couplet form. But keep reading, it has a strong finish."
The reporter glanced again at his phone. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Potter, I just received a text from my boss. I need to go, but thank you so much for your time." He pushed the paper back into Harvey's hand.
As the reporter quickly left, Harvey stood next to his small desk, his arm slightly extended and still holding on to the poem.
Monday, October 10, 2016
Friday, September 23, 2016
Ode to Ellen
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!"
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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