The ancient garage always reeked of grass.

Young grass;
cloying perfume of emerald patties,
fresh cut jewels from a front lawn,
crisscrossed facets glitter in sunshine.

Old grass;
like a three-day beard,
chiseled from the well of darkness,
swept beneath a rusty pile of junk.

Dead grass;
aged to a crusty white
like fine cheese,
delicately cringing in shadows.

Clean up this mess, he said.