By the time we were slurping oyster shots at Gibsons,
toped with lemon wedges cut too perfectly to be random,
prawn cocktails served in ice buckets,
Bloody Marys bright red, condensing,
sitting side by side, at tables high ,
his right hand on my left thigh,
I said to him:
“This is Dan Ryan’s.”
He said:
“It’s Dan Ryan’s, only that we’re in Chicago at Gibsons, not Hong Kong.”
I said:
“That’s why we always go to Dan Ryan’s, because it’s Gibsons!”
He smiled,
ordering us two more oyster shots.
We had spent the night at Peter’s house,
his old friend from Hamburg.
I met his wife and three daughters,
chiseled,
slim and tall,
dark manes draped over shoulders straight.
We had walked Michigan Avenue,
visited Cloud Gate,
dropped into Chicago Harley-Davidson,
stopped for hot dogs at Portillo’s.