An Ode to Slippers

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Hugs, marshmallows, clouds and feathers,

I step upon them

all in all

weathers.

Hidden inside, afraid to spoil,

woollen woven hooves

snuggled safe from recoil.

Six pairs have I,

though one late dead

from heavy heels and,

thoughts; weighted down my treads.

So five remain, all waiting,

for my toes to enter

like eggs returning to nest

too delicate to wander.

And like a gander I waddle, cocksure,

in my slippers

sure never to feel rough ground or stone

just carpets and fur together are sewn.

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