He draws in charcoal
on the whitewashed walls
of a ristorante,
down by the docks.
His face is weathered like the stone
worn down to the bone
by the sun and sea air.
His hair is whiter than the wall
that is his canvas.
If this was Britain, he would be
the oldest vandal
ever to be served with a court order.
His drawings are terrible,
and beautiful.
The hand is shaky, the pencil skipping,
the faces are misshapen, like his own.
Tracing the form of a plane
with my finger,
it is the drawing of a child,
not yet ready to grow old.