i used to ride my father's shoulders
hands clasped, i was a giant
gazed in astonished silence
at the world from such a height.
safe and sound and warm and fresh
made them proud with every breath
drawn deep to sing along with tape cassettes.
the smell of cigarettes inside my overalls and blankets
my mother's favorite apron had a pocket stitched in front
where she planted both her hands
when she was growing impatient.
waiting for him. so was i. headlights rolling at 10
meant he was home again. his Jeep wrangler was red
rusted and gorgeous. exhaust fuming our fortress
shotgun en route to school to feel important
seatbelt around my torso. the day
i climbed upon his shoulders and my balance had waned
my feet hung down much closer to his waist
i felt his chest beating, breathing harshly. sweat
droplets, graying scalp. i could have wept
but only climbed off and walked myself to the store
knowing that i couldn't be a giant anymore.