He leaned over me
on the way to the john
spoke softly
as drunks will
to strangers.
For a few hours
as we and they ate
he had —
speaking French to
his mother and father —
thanked them,
and he gave her a bouquet;
and they loved him
even if he was
drinking too much,
a bit too funny:
they spoke sweetly,
patiently in rich,
intimate patois.
He leaned over me
on his way
to the john,
and whispered
you know
Mother’s Day
makes me sad:
my wife died of cancer
five years ago today;
we had no kids.
Don’t worry,
it’s okay.
They understand.
He walked on
towards the john.