The Little One

This poem is about my eldest grandnephew, three years old and the smartest little bugger I've ever come across. He loves books, and whenever I'm visiting he simply hands me a book and we'd start reading together. His parents may have a genius on their han

The little one and I
sit together on the couch, engrossed
in the pages of Thomas the Train's 
latest suspense thriller.

For a while he was number one
on the New York Times bestseller list
until that Harry Potter came along
and knocked him off.

But we're both diehard Thomas fans
all the same.

At the precise moment where our hero
latches onto Percy's derailed car
in a blinding storm,
and is about to give it his all
in a race against time
to save his dear friend from
a horrible sinking demise in the mud,
the little one rips the book
from my hands, throws it to the floor,
squats and begins
turning the pages himself.

And I wonder,
could this little one
be an impatient learner?

Or a newborn seeker
of a truth
not yeat realized?

Time will only tell.