you write in a letter:   "things could be better.   things are the same."   you say:   "nothing changes,"   like it's a bad thing, like it's a curse      but I want to go home, I want to go home   I want to go home, I want to go home      I'm sick of the weather   I'm sick of the little things I don't understand   you stand at a bus stop, reciting a poem under your breath   I'm riding a bicycle, conscious of icicles just overhead      and I want to go home, I want to go home   I want to go home, I want to go home,      I miss the weather, I miss the parks   and the names of the streets