DEVILS FOX

There, at the bottom of the stairs,

when all I need to do is go to the loo.
I pause,
I linger.
Is it just my mind or is he really there?
Do I run or go back to bed?

He stares, stares in the dark but not at me,
just at the stairs.
Why the stairs?
Why is he there?

He's tall and thin.
Wearing black as so he blends in, into the darkness in which he stands.
He stands.
Never moves, never blinks.
Is he a statue?
Does anyone else see?

When I cook he stares,
stares again,
not at the stairs but at the oven.
When I sit on the sofa he stares,

stares at the sofa.

But never at me.

Can he see me?
Does he know I'm here?