You and I, my love, so many nights
Driving on Clybourne past the Golden Ox
In the years I was with Harrison Table Mat
And later when I joined Quick Service Textiles
At Walter Gips’ urging we still spoke frequently
Of the Golden Ox and planned to eat there.
(But we never ate at the Golden Ox
And now we never will.)
Remember, darling, when I was repping
Joe Cronin’s line of junk jewelry and we met
A man -- his name? his name? – who
By way of recommending the Golden Ox
Rhapsodized about the zwiebelfleish?
Oh, what was his name? Indindoli?
(But we never ate at the Golden Ox
And now we never will.)
That man, him, our talk with him to the wee hours,
How he read Kane and Abel and how
Albeit facetiously he bequeathed to me
His bowling ball. But I digress. As love
For the Golden Ox was his be all and end all
So you were my ne plus ultra, my inamorata.
(But we never ate at the Golden Ox
And now we never will.)
