Harvey's Tailor Pockets a Note

I can scare more crows

than any corduroy coat

on a garden pole.

It ain’t my wild eyes,

birds just know

I mean business.

I rub my nickels,

plot my course, tear a page

from every book

I come across.

Your angel hangs above me

like an October leaf

waiting to change

direction.

So measure the night

in blankets, sing to the sea set,

absorb the surf’s echo

like a stage whispered murmur

moments before the stars

brighten the skies.

Some folks learn

there’s a curve to things,

the lines coil and bend.

Thrown together, sewn

together, the binding chord

rings in rungs.