The Pharaoh smiles as I walk by.
He is content. He is resting. He does not move.

His face is an outline drawn in white chalk
on a sidewalk near the elementary school.

The crown on his head points due north.
A crack cuts across his cheekbone. He has no body.

His beard is concrete stubble.
Morning mist rises from his forehead.

Faltering shadows of oak leaves
limp across his parched lips.

He is fortunate. Endless drought
rewards him with fleeting immortality.

In a few months, when the leaves have fallen
and the night has come, he will look out . . .

beyond the trees, beyond the moon,
beyond the stars.

- Bob Miller