I would come visit you but the house is empty and only your ghost remains; remnants of you buried somewhere in the yesteryear of this seemingly boring city, known for its farmer's market no tourist would need to visit, cheese factories, cream cheese and a park where people take pretentious pictures with the word love.
I would come visit you but I'm afraid my car will be stolen by some homeless dude if I come in for too long. "Roadside Rarities" seems to say it's not worth the trip. The city of brotherly love doesn't seem too welcoming. However, I will sit here with bated breath and watch the ravens at your window standing like statues by the windowsill, cawing and waiting for your next poem from heaven or from the depths of nothingness from which new words will never again come.