WATCHING MY GRANDSON ON FACETIME

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He grabs fistfuls of feet
while lying on his back
like he’s receiving telepathic
instructions from
Swami Sivananda.

His eyes widen
like a Barrymore close up
and he smiles like a hobo
sleeping on a puffed-up bindle
dreaming of a cup of Joe
and a sinker.

His arms
circle daddy’s neck
like a Pashmina scarf
who he nuzzles like
a limp prom date
smitten with trust.

His hair is a soft brown pelt
the color of rich soil
the kind that trappers
coveted

He drools like 
the world is made of pie
and gabbles
in the idioglossia
of Nell

And here I am
Grandpa of the faraway
anguished in the sad-eyed
ether of distance
evicted from his touch
exiled on the Main Street of the quarter moon
just like The Little Prince
who knew that if you love a flower
which happens to be on a star,
it is sweet at night to gaze at the sky
because then
all the stars
are a riot of flowers.

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