that ran me over last night as I was about to board.

I forgive the midnight train, because it was raining

and it was dark, and maybe the headlights

 

weren’t bright enough, though they probably were.

I forgive the midnight train, because I remember

the softness of the seats, and how I slept

 

against its cushioned shoulders, leant on its side,

and let the sound of its wheels on the tracks lull me to sleep.

I forgive the midnight train, because it held me

 

like I mattered, even among all the other passengers,

because it whistled goodbye each night, because

it sang of meadows when my dreams were of sewers,

 

and swept past landfills and ghost towns and desert

and brought me home. I forgive

the midnight train, because though it ran me over,

 

it held me first, and even if it doesn’t anymore,

I still remember how I was loved.