Like a trash can and its lid,
my parents complete each other.
Playing the Sunday jumble, she looks
over his shoulder as he races to solve the puzzle
first; bearing a baby girl, she gave new life to his sarcasm.

The fresh competition trots into the kitchen
and tries their game seemingly oblivious to the coexistence
of power and taste: the black granite counter top,
and the soft wooden cabinets that her Daddy put up.
She ponders hard, her mother gazes out the back door
and says "edition". Abruptly, as lips spread to smiles,

The boy bounds in, and like a hurricane
(messy, thorough) he whisks the garbage away.
Outside, he tromps
past the gardens of bumble bee Bergamot
and the old decaying balance beam.

Walking down the driveway, he remembers
feeling like king when we first got the swing set
with the slide that Daddy cracked his tailbone on.
The sound of metal thunder stays with him,
just as his sister remembers not how much Hungry Hippos cost,
but how much they are worth.