Tongue In Cheek
The morning I turned seventy-two
I met some flying grits
Thrown by my grandson, seventeen months
They glued in tiny bits!
He thought nothing of grits in his hair
Or smeared on window sill
He liked the squishing in his palm
I became a cleaning mill
Eagerly sharing from high chair tray
Feeding my nose, not my mouth
Smearing this newly found delight
In places farther south
He wanted more, but I declined
Cheerios do not stick
He had some milk and drank it fast
Without a single grit
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