The Garage

Mr. Yaztrenski is using machines—

loud and rattling machines.

Smoke billows out from under the door—

the door of his garage.

What’re the machines all for?

He emerges, after a while,

with grease on his hands,

ash on his face.

No smile.

He doesn’t wave.

His face looks grave.

Mr. Yaztrenski opens the trunk of his car,

gets out something

with gears, something big.

Iron. Ugly. Bizarre.

He presses a button;

the thing makes a roar

and a screech, like nails on tin.

He opens his garage door,

looks around. Scowls.

Goes back in.

The sounds start up again.

Those sounds.

Oh man.

Oh dear.

We stand around staring, out here.

Mr. Yaztrenski is up to something.

But what

is not

so clear.