Storage Time (sorting the garage).

A creak, a step, then I’m in:

Back, to see what’s changed, in the half-light and quiet.

Time does not pass in garages:

It swirls. Wafts.

Coats Dusty tools, mottled shells all

stacked in brittle, faded buckets-

A Metropolis of tins.

It’s a spider’s graveyard here.

Musty shrouds lift as I sweep,

Gathering the gritty remnants of cherished years.

Behind the tool chest lie shards of glass.

Wood clippings. Wrappers.

Things hidden for decades, washed up

In this sweeping  tide of high-time.

 

© Tom Tide 2017

IMG_20170413_2140317_rewind

 

The above poem is from an old scribble from 2004, unearthed by my Father. I honed it.

 

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