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