Tiny Hands

Bent and battered

With fading paint

It waits for tiny hands

To rest upon

The sagging cab

While pushing 'cross the lands

Of imagination

Filled with dirt and grass

And leaves and sticks

For building roads

And towns and

Bridges over creeks

Where live the toads

It rolls about its work

To the sounds of voooomm

And eeeerrk and bblluuudum

Filling the air

Beneath the tree

Where once it labored

Alongside the spoon

And a coffee can

That are now only

Memories for a grandfather

Who can hardly wait

For those tiny hands.