the saturday garage door opening

as i walk by,

the man in his garage, says hello.

he has a radio on.

the space is

well lighted, fluorescent,

the floor

painted with a speckled

paint.

grey and green, blue dots

and red.

it's a work of art.

i see his bench, each tool aligned

on the pegboard wall,

the flat head screw

drivers,

Philips,

hammers and little jars of nails

and screws.

there's a metal poster of

betty Grable on the wall,

all legs.

the hood of his white little

car is up.

the trunk open

with golf clubs.

he's home. he waves me in.

his wife is out 

with the girls, he's all alone.

the tv in the corner is on.

a ballgame, the sound off.

beer, he says, drawing a draft 

from his mini bar.

sure, i tell him. sure, why not.

it's saturday, after all.