Her Little Hands

When I'm lonely sometimes,
Or when I feel scared,
I think of the little girl in love.

Sitting at her little schooldesk
With her mind fluttering over
Her life's little images.

A hand upon her hand,
His whisper in her ear,
His hot breath like a puppy dog's
Makes her hands sweat and the black asphalt spin.

She hunkers over her little desk
Reliving over and over her playground wedding.
She writes again, her first name, his last name,
Living out her tiny, precious future.

"I do" she says, "I do-do!"
The children laugh, and her husband-to-be
Stiffens his wet collar and leans closer.
She sees the dirt on his soft cheeks.
She dreams of kittens and soft, white linens.

And meanwhile the clouds darken in the sky,
the playground empties, the paper wedding dies,
And the children are nowhere to be found.
I'm still looking for the children out there.

His last name after her first name,
over and over,
her little hands in love.