Minotaur

Beneath the cellar door,
you know he's there.
Down winding stairs
and corridors of broken chairs,
beyond the derelict washer, dryer,
scrub sink, and rusted Flexible Flyer,
you know he's there -

propped on elbow,
jug at hand,
his broad, hairy chest
heaving slow, at rest,
alert to nothing,
but the lifted latch
at the top of the stairs.



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