His fingers are brittle and yellow, br those veins are fat and nagging; br his hands are thick and rough, br and they shake when he speaks. br br He stoops like a tree whipped br by storm and he walks clumsily br yet sober. He seems worn out br but it's only seven in the morning. br br Who can tell how many devils br he screwed around to get here; br how many steels tried to break br his bones. My father, standing.