Art

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.