I'm in Fort Lauderdale with my brother-in-law Art,
cruising the mansions along the canals.
I can’t get enough of these knock-off San Simeons,
and those towering flame trees, bursting
with orange. Like tall Howard Johnsons.
No doubt about it, these boys are different.
They're shopping-mall owners, Saul Bellow mobsters.
I'm sitting in the stern, looking back at the wake,
the twin Merc V-6's. Art's on the fly-bridge,
gunning the engine, checking the docks
for possible action. The boy's got it down:
that beer-belly tan, the shaggy-permed hair,
those Don Johnson glasses.
He hits
the wheel hard, starts yelling back,
pointing like crazy. I know what he's thinking: Pier 66:
the turquoise bikinis, the thousand foot yachts.
Have drinks at the bar, right next to Trump.
So here I am darling, lost in the roar
watching the world reassemble itself
while Art's on the fly-bridge,
glad-handing Trump, calling him
Donald, putting himself and the turquoise together
in one of those stories he'll tell to the boys.