It was the result of a brokenness in his body.
He would sit there, with his tight frown, his pent-up bowels, his shoulders narrow again like a boy’s, his paper-thin skin shaking and he’d wait.
Would you beat Old Franky like a rented mule rather than just let Old Franky be Old Franky?
As a kid, I’d imagine green florets budding out from under the soft and torn fingernails...
There is a symmetry in odd places.