The space between
my father's teeth
is where I find my parents,
still holding hands,
slowly crossing
the tracts between
home and Sunday
service, between Walmart
and the putting green.
This small dark gap
hides mindful memories
and ripping whistles,
always in tandem
with a crystal blue wink.

He grins.
I see forty years,
a New York Niagara motel,
two little girls jumping
between queen beds,
1960's magic fingers
vibrating a quarter's worth
of jiggle giggles. Rather than
being parental, he stands
mid-mattress and bounces.
A 200-pound factory worker
on holiday surges
across the great divide.

He's released the behavior
gates and we converge
on some ageless plain
of limitless silliness.
Buoyant squeals, woven
notes and bed clothes,
baritone grunts, and the squeak
of worn springs. We sail
to the safety of each
mattress, crossing the grand
canyon, the snake pit, the river
of lava. Pink pajamas and a man
in striped boxers.
My mother, his wife,
the ever vigilant
keeper of perfect timing
is turning the key
in the turquoise door,
forcing light into the monkey
business, freezing the jungle.
The outside slams the box
spring; the magic fingers
tremble. We are trapped
in her gasp, held in the glare.
The wobbling bed, a tripod
for my father's coy gap
to collect the snapshot.