"INHERITANCE" Poetry by John Grey
Matted hair a forest of weevils, mouth stuffed with cobwebs, flesh corrupted, rotting on the bone, but eyes wide, forever bulging, frayed dress to the knees, as deep in shadow flop the purple legs beyond.
This is what awaits when you explore the basement of the home you have inherited. You’ll check the heating system, the fuse box, the wiring. But, be warned, she is where the power resides.