Snow Song by The District

mocha

you    are the chair
in

the deserted  store, passing by
on

the street (my feet   waver
between  concrete canopies  and those
iron awnings).
i wait with

 peevish windows
staring (angry back    at me),  holding   signs

(i am    for sale) and

you
are not mine  (just) yet / but

someday.

you are  the quest that
i   call    home.