Garage: A keeper and protector of things past and present. A time capsule for future generations.

Rows of expired license plates, tacked to the wall as a memorial to cars long since traded in.

Matching bicycles, hanging on hooks from the ceiling, together
have less total miles than last year’s Boston Marathon runner-up.

The obligatory 4 x 8 sheet of pegboard, with brackets for tools bought just to fill up the space. Only a few, borrowed by neighbors years ago, are missing.

A lawn mower, and a half-full, red gas can, tucked neatly in the corner.

Brown five-gallon plastic buckets, filled with rock salt, oil dry, golf *****, and the remnants of a spilled bag of bird seed.

Garbage cans, resting up for the weekly trip to the end of the drive. One is for recycling.

A snow shovel, a *****, and a ***, guard the front corner in back of the garbage cans. The garden was at the first house.

A plastic Wal-Mart storage cabinet, locked shut by spider webs and two old spare tires stacked in front of it.

On the bottom shelf, should anyone care to look, are a number of one-gallon paint cans, left by the previous owner, twelve years ago. The brushes, rigor mortis having set in to the bristles, are hanging on the 4 x 8 sheet of pegboard.

Martin:
Stuff on the walls
Stuff on the floor
Hanging from rafters
No room for more

Kim:
Children's playthings long forgotten
Planks of wood almost rotten
Not a car in sight nor much light
It's a dank dark memory dungeon!

Thomas P. Owens, Sr.:
The old Dodge Dart there
long in need of a ******
back and forth to the A&P;
once a week by my Granny