I did not chose to be in Ft. Lauderdale,
waiting in the hallway of the Marina Marriott
as snowbirds, conventioneers, honeymooners, and partyers
passed in front of me.
The sky was overcast.
The air smelled of mildew.
The wedding reception in the ballroom poured out schmaltz,
while Streisland's 'People' garbled from the ceiling.

The night before,
as the water taxi we rode plyed the Atantic Intracoastal Waterway,
the crowded waterside mansions
glittered with Christmas lights.
A thirty-foot wooden snowman waved his arms.
In front of each mansion - the cremey white yachts - 
Ninty-five feet long, multi-storied, GPS navigated,
costing 'Fuck you' millions.

We disembarked
on the main strip of Las Olas. 
Lights grew like ivy on the trattoria,
Twisted colors and shapes overflowed the galleries.
Tiffany lampshades melted in the boutiques.
Neon beer signs in the bar windows were haute couture.
Long-haired blondes in white dresses
went to the bathroom in pairs, laughing too loud.
The morning I registerered for the conference,
a woman pinned two bright ribons (pink and purple)
to my tag and said,
"How pretty!"

The women in our group stayed at the Hyatt.
The bar there had a long window that opened on a pool where they dared not swim.
They knew where the eyes of the businessmen would settle
as they crunched on pretzels and peanuts between their Margaritas
and Vodka Absoute.
On the return,
I looked into the living rooms of the mansions.
They were empty.
The water taxi operator told us 
they named Ft. Lauderdale after a Major
who died in the war against the Seminoles.
I recalled an old friend,
part Black, part Seminole,
who told me they were the only Indians
never defeated by the U.S.
Everyone on the boat hoped to see manatees,
but the hour was late, the Waterway silky black,
as the operator told us -
"The water was once so clear,
you could see the tarpons."

hhc
12/4/95