Past cars abandoned deep in grasses quiet as the sea,
a farmer wearing a dirty cap and driving a John Deere tractor
gazes into the distance, perhaps
into the past. I am dreaming he is dreaming
of a bus trip to Chicago
thirty years ago, when a stranger shyly smiled,
shared snacks with him and dropped
six blueberries in his palm. One for every finger,
one for luck. North Platte,
Kearney, Lincoln. They got off in Des Moines, I think,
where they checked into a Motel 6 and woke up early like
Adam and Eve, blinking,
nothing between them but time.