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