my father
fashioning on crisp white paper
the outline of an Egyptian
against an alley wall
half asleep
our migrant adventure
taken for granted
at the time
the scratch of the pencil
on his best cartridge
the only sound in the sunlight
then the subject stirs
spits and gathers his cloak tight
over his shoulder and head
so simply the sketch is ruined
the pencil shades in the cloth
obscuring the outline underneath
like dust settling on memory
how soft the hand
holding the pencil