So this old guy
(couple years older than me
my wife sez to say)
walks in to play bridge
wearing blue jeans
a nice vertical stripes
on his matching shirt
and wide braces
with tool designs
and he does all right.

Couple times I sez:
I like your outfit;
you really match.
And his wife
laughs and sez:
I knew people
would comment
on those braces.

So one the way out
I sees him standing
by the main door
in his matching outfit
waiting for his wife
and he’s holding her purse.
It’s big and it’s white.

I sez:
how can you carry
a white purse
with  that colour-
coordinated outfit
and dandy suspenders?
And he grins sez,
she’s gone back
fer her umbrella.

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.