garage 

my father jokes about running a power line
out to the garage so he can live there.
i remember once
during a thunderstorm
we sat on overturned paint buckets
& watched it pour
from an open bay.
washing the driveway clean.
i have walked inside there
& found shrines to invented gods. 
the walls are covered with
old paintings & wooden idols.
my father is a maker. a maker of 
holes & a maker of hinges &
a maker of sawdust. 
i used to want to be just like him.
he fills bags of wood shavings 
to give to us to line the chicken coop. 
maybe i still do want
to be like him. in the yard i build
a garage from leaves 
& feathers. every time
the wind comes strong it
blows the doors away. 
i find i have less & less places
to hide. i envy my father
& all his garages. pulling the door shut.
the callouses on his fingers. 
what is it like to live
inside your own fist?
my father is rarely delighted.
i guess so am i. sometimes when it rains
i wonder if he is there
still sitting & watching it. i don't
watch the rain. not anymore.
my garages fill with bones.
burst. rebel. i throw a tarp over
the firewood in the yard. 
use a shovel to turn the chicken's bedding.
look out in the yard at all
the places my garages 
could bloom. run a power line
out to each of them. watch them glow.