at rest

his broken fingers tell
you something,
the gnarled
dirt still
there, tells you
something about work. his face.
a cliff
of life,
smoked
and drunk into the shape
it's taken.
love won or lost may
be part of it too. the plowed
skin,
of sun
and sea upon his brow,
his cheeks,
but it's his hands,
his fingers
that lie
folded upon his
buttoned
suit, old with shine,
is what you see,
telling you
something about him,
about what a man does,
must do
from sunrise
until sunset
until sleep becomes his
life.