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.