the white truck

Your white truck, your father's
gun, oh Stephen, your eyes, your smile.
No one knows another human being no one
knew you, Stephen, or knew what you planned
northwest of Bangor, Maine.

A broken child, a 57 year old
man, oh Stephen, you didn't know them.
You walked into their sordid story and blew
it open. 34 rapists. Did you make a list.
Did you check off the names in your head did
you think what you were doing

was right. Stephen. I heard
your name on the TransCanada west of Winnipeg,
driving alone, the unwinding road, the dispassionate
CBC voice telling me your name, the bare facts
two men dead and you. You said nothing
when they boarded the bus.