The Inheritance

Tall and gangly once,

But now portly from the waist up,

He slouched, head hung from years

Of insecurity and shame.

His graying hairs were greasily plaited

In strands that hung uneven,

Wearing a rumpled, faded jacket,

A worn scarf about his neck.

He walked right up to the front door

And rapped sharply.

And when no one opened immediately,

Without waiting, he quickly turned the knob.

He entered with out thinking

To the large, yet cozy front room,

With the rugged Scottish sectional—

The traditional red plaid cushions,

Out lain by the old, hard wood.

He looked up, his eyes following the staircase

That led to the vaulted upper area,

And into an open, right angled hall.

The bedrooms rested comfortably

There on the second story,

Where some of the lucky ones stayed,

“Or at least the ones,” he thought to himself,

“That seemed to fit the bill.”

He could see the doors to their rooms just so.

Suddenly the porter was there

Blocking the way and checking.

“Can I help you, sir,’

He stated, with not a hint of recognition.

“Yes,” said the visitor,

Continuing to shuffle his feet along

Side to side, stepping around the servant.

“You see,” he said, as he grabbed a few items,

Sticking them into his pockets,

With such fast moves that it really

Couldn’t be detected

If anything had been there at all.

“I used to live in this house before,

And one day will be its master.”

He took another couple of things

From the shelf and the old hall tree,

“And,” he continued, matter of factly,

Pushing them into his coat front,

“I have come to get a few things

That I really need right now.”

“Because,” he rolled his eyes with loathing,

“I have no idea if these bastards will ever die.”

-jenn long