THE PREDATOR QUESTION

It spies me

through the tall grass,

from the high branches

of a gnarly oak,

from the crossing guard's stop sign

at the corner,

from the back row of a Cineplex,

from inside my rearview mirror,

while I am at the checkout stand at BevMo,

and as the waitress pours my coffee

the morning after. It stalks me 

daily, has me in its cross-hairs,

moves as I move

like a shadow

that knows me better

than I know myself.

It is waiting to ambush me

when I least expect it.

It is the question I can’t  

ask, because its gaze

will swallow me whole

like a hungry hypnosis.

It is watching me even now

as I type these words.

These letters are

periscopes belonging to

the shape of something

just beneath the surface.

These keystrokes are 

the eyes of a leviathan  

living inside 

a deeper inquiry

that lurks fathoms down

in the dark.