It was a sweet

frisky fancy

when my son

my sort-of son

a man now

stopped me and said

Carry me

Carry me piggy-back

and he made the leap

legs tight to my hips

arms crossed over my chest

Carry me

he said

his son intent

watching

his turn next

 

I felt the man

the father

and then the son

my sort-of grandson

one two three of us

ignoring the glances

of strangers

watching an old man

galloping around the parking lot

first with the father

then the son

giggling

a chin to my ear

in defiance of convention

and parking lot orthodoxy

holding on