Midnight Tram

The tram writes a sentence of light
down the sleeping avenue.
We are two commas in it—
paused, almost punctuation.

Rain beads the glass. The city
turns its pockets out: neon,
wet stone, a saxophone
practicing being lonely.

At the next stop nobody boards.
The doors breathe, then close.
Your reflection leans toward mine
as if the night had one more line.