An Anglo bistro. Sweat-soaked. Six-ish.
"Absolut?" Amstel Light. Midtown and then some,
and me just back from Michigan's sore thumb.
One of the city-slick? I wish. No, nix wish—

crowded in with the dark suit, dark shirt, dark
tie crowd means no light cuts in betwixt Miss K
and me, either. "‘Either,' they say, and ‘pray'
for ‘please' still. Well, one did." It'll be dark

before we eat, but K's stories of "seeing sights"
take me out again—by tube, by red double-decker
to where "Jello's ‘jelly' and, oh brother,

jelly's ‘jam,'" so that I'm sheepish, I'm delighted,
both at once, once it dawns: I look (checker-
board shirt, khaki floods) like no one
but my father.