grandma of the year is in the hotel pool.
she’s already got my vote
from my ringside seat, over salad and beer.
solid in her floral one-piece,
armed with a neon water blaster
aimed at her grandson, likewise equipped;
moon-faced, dark-haired,
i’m guessing he’s seven, eight tops. they drift,
engaging in a series of languid skirmishes
where nothing explodes but the boy’s laughter,
spluttery as he ducks under water.
our fellow diners, a california mixed bag
earnest faces in earnest conversation
while i can’t take my eyes off grandma,
silver hair a coiled corona.
she and the boy, planets, with leisurely orbits,
sporadically geysering arcs of water.
the setting sun steals the day’s heat so we leave;
the two of them still swimming around
like slow-dancing absent longing,
like love is a pool, and of course, they are in it.