My father arrives home at the same time
every day.
His feet step on the mat, his coat hangs on
the rack, his voice speaks into the kitchen.

He never takes off his work shoes at night.
Each tap a reminder, each step an echo
resonating through an empty house,
his temple of sanctitude and scotch glasses cannot be quieted by footsteps that aren’t his own.

The soles of his feet are the volume of his mouth.
Louder than the silverware at dinner and the hum of the radio, they triumph until socks, until bare feet, until tiled floor and the carpet next to the bed, until there are no noises to compete with, until the rustling of sheets, until all he can hear is the breath of the sky.

Then morning comes.
With the rise of the sun comes kindness, warmth, comes the unknown territory of a quiet house, comes dust lit up by a powerful light, comes sleepy eyes and adventure, child’s play, comes boyhood and flannel pajama pants.

He slips going down the stairs in his socks,
his feet a pair of skates on ice, his smile
wide, his shame unapparent as he shakes
his head, laughing.

He makes a cup of coffee, partially singing
along to the Christmas song that plays quietly on the radio, his footsteps are barely heard.

This is when I like him the most.