"When Is a Garage Not a Garage?" Poem

 "When Is a Garage Not a Garage?"

When is a garage not a garage?
When it’s packed to the roof with a memory barrage—
Old boxes of dreams, rusted hopes in a pile,
A treadmill that ran... maybe once, for a mile.

A garage becomes something else entirely
When the car lives outside, exposed wearily,
While shelves sag with “someday,” the bins filled with “might,”
And cobwebs weave through the ghosts of foresight.

There’s a snow globe from Bali, cracked garden gnomes,
Three camping chairs, though you never leave home.
A drawer of dead remotes, cords with no kin,
And trophies from battles you never did win.

It’s no longer a home for your faithful old ride,
But a vault for decisions you've yet to decide.
A shrine to the things you can’t quite let go,
A theater where “Later” continues to show.

So sweep out the past, make peace with the mess,
Let go of the weight, release the excess.
Then one quiet evening, as stars softly spark—
You’ll pull in your car, and reclaim the dark.

When is a garage not a garage?
When it’s a shrine to someday, a cathedral of clutter,
A time capsule bursting with what-ifs and maybe-I’ll-need-thats.
No room for your car—but hey, there’s your broken treadmill,
a dusty box labeled “Important”
and seven folding chairs that never folded into anything useful.

It’s not a garage.
It’s the Museum of Postponed Decisions.
The Fortress of Forgotten Projects.
The Closet That Ate the Sedan.

Somewhere beneath the garden tools and good intentions,
your car sighs in the driveway,
dreaming of shelter
and the space that once was hers.