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BETWEEN ART, FORT LAUDERDALE, AND HIMSELF,
I'm in Fort Lauderdale with my brother-in-law Art,
cruising the houses along the canals.
I can’t get enough of this place: the plaster-cast Venuses,
the little San Simeons, and those
towering flame trees, bursting with orange.
these boys are different; they're two-fisted dreamers.
They build things that please them.
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,
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.
continued,