Lauderdale

At dusk, the grandmother sits alone

in the light of the long pale pool and speaks

to the frog who is waiting

by the electric gate of the clubhouse.

It will be all right, she says, leaning out

from her chair. Her voice

is churning, and old, and wet

with advice. Her newly red hair

purples under the bug light. It will be

all right, she says, again, and again

the sky rolls in and out on its journey

across the peninsula, rattling the palms.