Hungry Cat

On Monday I pack up my bag
and haul my week from flag to flag.
Two houses wait on either street,
with different rules for tongue and feet.

At Mom’s, the kettle starts to sing.
She calls me cher for everything.
I answer soft, I answer slow,
in half the French I almost know.

At Dad’s, the game is on too loud.
He keeps his worry in a cloud.
He says, ça va? I say, I’m good,
and we both knew where that stood.

At work, my name tag shines in blue.
I say, can I help you?
My English smiles, my hands behave.
I stack the shelves. I earn. I save.

At school, the hallways switch again.
Bonjour, devoirs, examen.
My French stands straighter in that place,
then trips and blushes on my face.

On Sunday, church bells pull me in.
I mouth old words about old sin.
I kneel because the others kneel,
not sure what’s faith and what I feel.

At night, my friends all talk in jokes,
in English smoke from English throats.
I laugh too fast. I play my part.
It gets me home. It costs my heart.

Then there he is, beside the chair,
with judgment in his yellow stare.
No form to fill. No side to pick.
No grammar test. No little trick.

I drop my keys. He lifts his head.

T’es-tu hungry, little buddy?