Revisiting My American Garage Years Later
For those looking for a metrical repeat of the original I apologize. Everything is so rushed. Ginsberg is almost gone from our recent memory and Ferlinghetti has reached golden age. So these words must be short, sweet and prepared to be read as a quick note. This poem is written to be read while running out of the garage to make an appointment on time. Just a quick reminder.
Hey Lawrence! Are you hanging out with Ginsberg in my garage this early Saturday afternoon with ice tea.
The boxes are now filled with holiday detritus, removed closet doors, and a few milk crate poems.
Our bikes are broken and lean in a row with skateboards missing wheels. Cross Country skis and old downhill ski sets.
The books of our lives have moved safely indoors or donated to readers in need of a read.
Easels are covered with layers of paint, acrylics, oils, and spray. Tossed down to the ground yet still in a tripod.
This American family garage has thinned out, moved indoors, kept ready for quick retreat.
Lawrence we welcome you. Ginsberg, a return visit, sorry, all the oddity has gone.
Pawned for a roof and some food.