Quite, Little, Thing. Poem by maria goodison

There a place I like to pass every time I go to town
It's on a busy road full of people and all their go.
It looks so out of place, old, wasted so very run
down.
Yet it still my mind and quite the sound of the people on the bus every time I go in to town.
One charming broken window perfectly round you drifted in thinking had to of been a tennis ball?
Lost in the thread of time, missing out on the Christmas light as the rest in the street shine bright.
Left alone, unloved, unwanted, uncaring, oh how I wish you were mine.