“I love you Dorothy Olmstead,”
Passes in white and purple on the grain car’s undercarriage,
Written, I know, with spray cans by a North Dakota teen
While the train readied to shake under tons of chute-delivered wheat berries.
And Dorothy Olmstead two days later, was rolling down the middle of
the United States
Under wheat berries to Mexico,
While the teen was back in his father’s tractor-repair shop,
With sad and left thoughts of Dorothy Olmstead who had gone off to college,
Knowing nothing of her moving name inscribed under what berries
By a teen whom she passed for four years in a stuffy high school hall,
She of books,
He of wrenches.