Carports
Scott C. Holstad

There’s no garage at my
pad, only another carport.
It’s full of holes and
patched places, looks
like it was constructed
as a skewed, herky
jerky lab experiment
as though looking at
tilted planets racing
red, plaid or beige.

It doesn’t dazzle like
many newly painted
garages would nor can
it hold much light,
but it’s got crazy
multi-colored bottle
shards, plenty of
jagged little edges
and other shadowy
unidentifiable wonders,
birthing its second
degree status. Wads of
suspect rags lie in corners
and rusted cans people
use for nighttime beds.
The trees seem to reach
out for it, try to capture
it, take it over, limbs
slashing garishly,
gnarled, knobby,
and the brush has
been doggedly cleared
away, but this carport
lingers like others have
before it.

Think of vivid colors
ripping through and into
uncertain darkness and your
brain feels new once again.