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