Hearing of your latest
spurt of hell, I wonder
who will ask the question
that will close your throat
at last.

I wonder if you
will be at a podium 
in the middle of some
hateful, stupid sentence
full of self-referential, self-
serving pablum for you that
will deal terror to so many others
when someone blurts out
the right spell, the right curse
in the form of an inquiry
you can’t deflect, or

will it come from a half-trusted aide
on a golf course
somewhere, mid-swing,
while you’re trying to forget
everyone else and focus on
your own perfection that’s always
just beyond your grasp, or

will it come from one of your children,
checking in on you  
long after midnight as you stare daggers
into the screen light between 
your soft little hands, or

will it come, most improbably,
from yourself as perhaps
a chunk of clot hits your brain
in the right spot to release you
from this unrelenting lust for 
the reverence and squat obedience
of all others. What question will it be

that takes you down, pours you
into a puddle of gray flesh on 
a public floor, terrified as always
but with a fading awareness
that this is what you always wished
for so many others, what you dealt
with so many of your labored breaths,
and now you may meet them Face to face?

No one’s certain,
but rest assured,
we’ll keep asking
until we see you fall.