His feet hardly reaches the floor
as he sits buckled up
gazing quietly out at the
windshield where he can see
the cars but not their tires
The sky with the telephone wires
but not the road
At times he sits with furrowed brows
What his thoughts are, who knows?
Sometimes he holds a lollipop
to his mouth with a chubby fist
What tiny hand, what subtle licks
Hard to resist an urge to give a kiss
So at every red traffic light I tend to this
and try not to steal a glance
at his antics, the softest cheeks
a face that can launch
a mother’s worship
Not to mention that his nose ends
at just the perfect length
like a ballerina’s toes en pointe
An exclamation by an almost joint
The whys are coming
A barrage of whys that I
try my best to give an answer to
And they never stop until I say I do
not know, some things come
while others go
One day his feet will reach the floor
And he will be a little boy no more
If only there’s a way to make this
passenger stay small and always
sitting next to me
