Mama’s house still smells like cinnamon dreams,
lullaby vinyl spins low in the glow of the street.
Her rosary swings from the rear-view mirror,
counting every mile I ran from my fears.
Kitchen light hums—she left it for me,
a lighthouse in the dark of the remastered sea.
I kneel by the porch, ghosts swing on the swing,
whispering boy, come home, come sing.