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