Small Cold Hands Poem by Matty Reynolds

Small cold hands
Struggle to get under my shirt
To my explosive objections!
Yet you tear me down
With a needy glance
A wanting look I have never seen before.
Your shape disappears with those
Sad blue eyes following
Me out the door,
Down the driveway
With a sad regretful smile.

Go to sleep little one,
Soon the sun will
Scratch the eastern trees.
Coffee pots will fill,
A new day will trudge forth;
With it tired eyes
Sandpaper tongues
Creaking floors
And work to be done.

Blow hard into your cupped hands.
Steam whooshes through them like a
Locomotive from old times.
One day my shirt, and all the
Wrinkled warmth it contains will be gone.
Will that regretful smile?