You don’t expect the man on the bus
speaking booming business English
to switch to soft, excellent French
halfway through his phone call
inviting someone to his birthday piss-up
on Saturday—one moment laughing about
the old falling-down juice and grilled meats,
and the next talking thoughtfully
about the years settling over him like heavy snow,
covering up the shallow footprints
he has been able to leave on the earth.
Why the change? And why French?
And why on the bus? You imagine a random
francophone stepson or an old family friend
or someone joining the call from the Paris office,
but no, no, these are embarrassing ideas,
lacking explanatory power and as obviously wrong
as drinking hot coffee through a straw
when you realise what the actual answer must be,
which is that he is speaking to his mother,
speaking the language he learned to speak
for his mother’s sake all those years ago,
yes, his dear mother who wanted the world
for him to be big and full of boulevard views
and difficult philosophy and methodical cooking
and paintings of women on swings,
his saintly mother who would pack
his cornichon sandwiches when she got home late
from work so they’d have a night in the fridge
and she could get exactly six minutes more sleep
in the morning before she would see her boy off
to the school bus to his elite, expensive academy,
her boy, her trésor, her chouchou, her little biquet.