You and my dad met, finally,
In a tavern.
You trotting with a Moscow Mule,
Dad toying with his Royal Stag,
Removing bones from a pearl spot
Like an artist.
You said, shyly, ‘We haven’t met’.
He squinted at you through his Chinese eyes,
And said, ‘True.’
‘But long before I died, I had told my son,
That he will meet you sometime’.