Here’s an old photo of my father

oddly alone on a city street,

he’s as slim as a novella

and dark as a gypsy prince,

he looks like Kafka,

thick, black hair slicked back

and comet-bright eyes,

the wariness of someone

suddenly summoned to appear

at such and such a time

at such and such a place,

the Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute

for the Kingdom of Bohemia,

and he’s on his way there now,

hands thrust deep in his pockets

as if to hide certain injuries,

but, of course, this is not K.,

and that is not Prague behind him,

and I am not born.