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.
robins returned to our yard yesterday. hopefully they've found places like this to wipe their feet off on this blustery day.
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