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