Julie Doiron's Borrowed Minivans

I knew you before the hotel bars
When we rode around in railroad cars
And drank underneath the sun and the stars.
We were warm with our hearts and hands.

Now when I see you I notice your clothes
And your boyfriend who plays at sold out shows
And the way you love him so everyone knows
That you belong to your man.

But sometimes at night I remember your eyes,
How they blinked at the bumps over railroad ties,
How you woke to untangle our knotted up thighs,
And looked for another plan.

I prayed that the brakes would never be pulled,
That Missoula, Montana, would never get cold,
That the railroad bulls would be consoled
By the shipment from Spokane.

It’s ten years later and charges were dropped.
I’ve long since forgiven the railroad cop
But each time I hear a whistle stop
I think of you again.