Sally Rhoades

My Father’s slippers

were,  lined with fur

not the kind you could


take notice of  a gentle

fur like his hands


that rapped the table

with its little song.


My father’s slippers were

snug with his toes


concealed inside

the soft fur.


His step was gentle

and soft, padding


the linoleum to the

kitchen at four am.



and the tea kettle

would whistle as


he poured the day’s

coffee.  He’d haul


out the cards and

play solitaire one


more time as his

slippers sat neatly


beneath the chair

and I would hear


the crack of the cards

the whistle  the


stirring and know my

morning had arrived

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