Suspects

November 13, 2022
Interstate 90 between Moscow and Missoula

We drove the gray ongoingness,
leaves yellowing, enflaming
the ditches, fields nubbed from harvest,
a cop tailing us in this season
of spooks and goblins.

State line.

He stopped under the overpass
when we pulled in for gas at St. Regis.
His binoculars followed us.
The pass was dry, warm,
almost summer-like,
though everything was turning dark.
A friend in Montana was divorcing
his wife, trying to get custody.
The cop stalked us along shady roads
of Doug fir, pine pitch in the air.

We didn’t know we were suspicious.

We didn’t know what had happened
on our side of the pass,
had not yet heard
about the gray sorority house,
the intruder—black mask,
lean build, majoring in crime.

You looked at your phone.

On Monday, the campus
was different—the bell tower clanged harder,
the shuffle of boots, the bang of clogs
in the hall stunned, students rushed
to class, jackets pulled tighter—
everyone suspect.