Night Song

At midnight, the train comes.
Maybe it’s at ten o’clock,
Maybe it's at one.

But the train sounds its whistle.
It plays a chord.
It first starts off in major,
Then shifts to minor the closer it gets to my window.

I listen and pull the covers
over my head.
At 43, my little child's hand,
The one that sleeps inside my big hand,

The one who is still eight years old and terrified,
Reaches out to touch and explore
Different parts of my body.
Mommy, I whisper, It hurts.

My big hand covers my heart.
Where? It asks.

Here.
Here.
Here.