you hear me coming

You and I, dear, shuffle like slippers.
We should perhaps lift the feet
of our good evening.
You like the fire on.
I read in the lamplight.

There’s velvet behind the eyes,
plush in the crook of an elbow:
we are fuzzy with wear.
You are downy.
I fray the felt lining.

We are two long-lost houseshoes,
slow-heeled now, transferring
from sole to sole our gladness.
You hear me coming.
I cross my feet over yours.

© Tori Grant Welhouse