Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
Then with cracked hands that ached
From labor in the weekday weather made
Banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
And slowly I would rise and dress,
Fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
Who had driven out the cold
And polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
Of love's austere and lonely offices?
The son does not express gratitude or appreciation for his father’s efforts. Though his father tried to demonstrate his love through his labor, the son takes it for granted. The phrase ‘driven out the cold’ is, of course, a metaphor for the cold feelings his father tried so hard to banish from the family. 
 We may assume that the father is polishing the good shoes to preserve the appearance and dignity of the family as much as the warmth inside the home.
Those Winter Sundays