The Garage Poem by Ian Keenan

A green door,
Just past the strawberries,
And inside
Dad’s metal last
To mend our shoes.

Then he used to ride his bike
To Temple Meads and the
Telegraph Office,
Night or day,
Rain or sun,
His work shifts
All one.

In ’53 he bought
The Minx,
What wonder -
No more trains
From Parson Street
To Bude.

Parked in the garage,
Now no need or room
To sole our shoes,
I grown up,
Remembering Dad of yesteryear
Among his tools.
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