My Garage

I have sixteen boxes of family photographs on these shelves. And all kinds of memorabilia with faeries, brownies and elves. My garage is a catch-all for things that are haughty and nice. One time I heard a crinkle, and found a fountain of mice. They kept running out of a big bag and all over the floor. I stood in horror for a second, then I headed toward the door. There are eaten bits of staplers, pill bottles and old tennis shoes. So many belts and hats in pieces which my dog Buddy chews. My garage used to have a blinking stop sign to say when to stop. But Buddy tore it up. The pieces are lying next to an ugly gray mop. There are boxes of puzzles, crayons, paints, jeans, lamps and books. It has all kinds of weird stuff hanging upside down on green hooks. There are buckets and tins and a cat inside my garage of choice. I have moldy pictures that got wet of my great-great auntie Joyce. I am sure if you try hard enough you will find candy and gum. Bottles of ink, tarnish, Rust-oleum paint and a poster of Tom Thumb. My garage is where everything ends at the end of the day. I always say I am going to get rid of stuff, give it away. But summer after summer I sit and I paint, playing around. They’ll have to get rid of it when my body is way underground.