My father, for a short while, was a tailor,
not a job that suited him, if you'll pardon me,
but some nights he'd bring home triangular chalk,
the sort that marked cloth, the sort that was a toy to me.
It was velvety to the touch, not like stick chalk,
but great fun on a black or purple writing pad.
I remember little of importance about him
but I recall odds and ends, the trivia of my Dad.