Under the up and over door

We built the garage without cigarettes,
it still has the bruises.
The fluorescent tube is blackened
but it coughs loud enough
to send spiders checking corners.
I twirl a finger on the worn down vice
It shudders through rust,
sets my teeth on edge.

I'm not sure what it is.
There’s a layer of dad on these walls,
concrete under the paint.
I shake a few old spray cans,
ball bearings ride the empty insides
motor bikes on the wall of death,
pilot goggles and a piss pot helmet.
There’s a layer of me too,
a scrawny bit dipped in grease
split fingered and blood blistered.

Its not about the smell either,
cooked engine oil and turpentine.
To look at it its nothing but relegated
MFI draws and cut down Formica work tops,
nails in jam jars and extra strong mint tins.

No, it’s not about any of that.
It’s about craftsmanship, taking care
the penciled scope and scaled up repair
the weight and balance, air and brush,
handmade projects, screwed
and bolted, glued and tacked,
a chiseled rose on gold leaf thorns.
All metal filings on my memories
that glint each time the door goes up.
Yes that’s it,
that's what I see when I'm able to look.