To the man who taught me to
put cinnamon in my coffee, put
a little swing in my hips, leave
a little smile on your lips

in the middle of an empty room, in
the middle of winter, slowly exhale,
breath our hopes in frigid air, let
them linger in soft space between

dreams and reality, dreams and reality, dreams
dissipating like the cinnamon spots, sun spots
in the middle of an empty room still lingering