somewhere in here are purses
My garage houses sixteen hundred paintings you see.
Large cartoons on canvases, painted by me.
There are floor to wall shelves, crammed full.
My garage is alive, a living, breathing happy soul.
There are garden tools –spades, trowels, a yellow rake.
Two axes to chop trees, for nature’s overgrown sake.
In the corner is a pink frig full of crème soda too.
If they are cold and fizzy, I am never blue.
My garage houses masks, statues, and teacher’s things.
Somewhere in here are purses, one with two diamond rings.
I have not found it yet, for there is a lot of stuff to sort.
There are balls of all shapes and sizes, for every kind of sport.
There are two cars – my husband’s is sixteen-years-old.
There are garage sale signs, written in magic marker bold.
A bike, riding lawnmower, shoes, boots, and mittens too.
Material, yarn, tools, office paper, books, and hot guns full of glue
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