I drive under your vacant sign every morning and night.
Nothing shouts "Used To Be" like your emptiness.
I think of the slimy tininess you once kept warm.
And now you're just a bowl.
For snow to collect in.
On a day,
so close to when things are supposed to be sprouting,
and chirping around inside of you again.
I hope someone wipes their feet off and makes themselves at home.