Shoveling

I hate it when I’m at home and the sun isn’t up yet.
There is a plow in the street outside my window
grating against the fresh white canvas of silent city.
My eyelids slumber something heavy.
The light from my father’s side of the bed is on
and so is his turtleneck and his whiskers from last night.
I always thought it curious how he has red whiskers
When he has hair a hue of brown that matches my mother’s eyes.
Or matched. She used to tell me they shared dreams.
But now it’s cold as my father slips on his boots with hardly a sound.
It’s the kind of cold that sneaks inside, through the unknown cracks.
An uncomfortable chill, just enough to reach for the sweatshirt
and keep the socks on in bed.