Dangerous Paradise

Sticky, stagnant afternoons of August

give way to breezes from the bay

lightly salted, mingled with Potomac brine.

From the porch, across the road

above the din of muscle cars

and golf carts pumping disco tunes

the high tide crashes on boulder bulwarks

splashing millipedes, who dart between

the cracks and Adirondack wrecks.

Grammy slouches near me, hunched,

feet sloped and swollen in their slippers

finding purchase on familiar floorboards

beneath the groaning timbers

of an alabaster rocking chair.

Tremors betray her pensive stillness

where she stews in fading, fickle recollections,

eased only by these balmy latter-days shared

with seldom-gathered family.

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