Amid the jagged gang tags and stenciled black numbers,
mysteries of load limit and half-peeled cautions, their goofy pink heart
looms large: Danny and Mary in a bright mild arc across the valentine,
and then the kicker: 35 Yrs.  Am I to imagine a sixty-year old dude
with can of spray paint hopping a chain link fence and skulking
through the midnight train yard looking for just the right boxcar?
Mary at his side advising on color and composition?   White letters
shadowed in red across the gray functional steel of the car
as it crosses the noon street in Ripon, Wisconsin.  Who knows 
where Mary and Danny may be today, or where they began
their journey, or when?  All we know is that here they are
crossing the country now, stitching each small town to the next
with their love solid as steel and steady as tracks.  I used to think
carving names on an oak or maple was the most beautiful vow,
marriage of the timeless with season and weather, yet now I see
you can marry the future in other ways.  And no, I don't mean
death, and certainly not divorce.  I mean Danny and Mary
chugging across America for at least thirty-five years, all 
their cargo safely stowed, their two hearts one, drinking
long toasts of diesel in the spring air, announcing themselves
at each crossing with a loud, still fervent burst of horn.