Today is all about cleaning the house. I have stuff everywhere; tools, construction material, projects, and my general mess. The wife needs to use the entire kitchen tomorrow. Here’s a poem to tide you over.
Let’s talk soon…
Two Car Crypt
My garage is a mausoleum
full of death and decay.
Not of mice or bugs, but past lives.
It is full with sarcophagi of plastic totes,
cardboard boxes neatly stacked,
shrouded in cobwebs and dust.
The tombs are devoid of bronze plaques;
peeling tape, faded Sharpie scribbles
mark the internment of ghostly memories.
High, and to the left, tattered remains
of soccer jerseys and baseball uniforms,
participation trophies left to contort in heat.
Old camping equipment, long abandoned hobbies,
clothing that will never fit or be in style again
fill the majority of unmarked graves.
A wing, devoted to a Christmas Village,
shines new with sturdy red and green coffins
waiting to be exhumed for the next lonely holiday.
An entombed wedding album
and high school love notes rest unpeacefully, wait
for the proper amount of time to cremate.
Most reverence lost for these long-passed lives.
Like headstones on so many paupers' graves,
they are only dusted off when trying to find another.
I am the caretaker, tasked with the job of overseeing
bits of history that so many have fought to exile
in nights of fitful sleep until the need to remember.
The Renaissance Maniac 