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