a meaty tang of 

oils, dirt, and sweat

tarnish the Garage.

painting the once

plain, cold concrete

into something with character.

the drywall has matured,

from unpainted walls and weak support beams, 

to getting covered from head to toe

in flags and stolen road signs,

that my Father has dedicated to

Me.

His old work gloves

hang next to the safety glasses he never wears

on the husky tool chest that

We got on sale

for Father's day.

Mine lie directly next to His,

a carbon copy

that is slightly smaller and cleaner,

aging to be just like His.

I know

if you try hard enough,

six cars can fit into a three-car Garage.

if you try hard enough,

you can always guess the right ratchet size.

if you try hard enough,

any car can run again.

He told Me that I can do anything,

if I try hard enough.

cold air trickles in 

from under the cracked door,

biting My exposed ankles.

but the Garage, 

but my Father,

keep Me warm.