Stan, The Mystery Man Poem by naomi smith

Stan, the Mystery Man

They didn't realize how much
They told me about Stan, the Man.
And waiting table, I'd hear tidbits,
About the computer designer/automator
with a habit of walking on the beach,
clipboard and mechanical pencil
in hand, a man who loved to talk about
a day and age when menial labor,
of any kind would be a long ago memory.
'But I like my job! ' I said for fun.
'But according to Stan all this toil
and labor is unnecessary and Man
will someday exist purely to create
art and music.' 'And write poetry? '
I added. 'You write poetry? '
'I try! ' 'Stan loves poetry! '
'Ya gotta read some to Stan! '
'I guess, I could! ' I said with
a shy wink. 'Cool! That'll get him
to come down here! '
Every month they came in waiting
With such great hopes for Stan,
talking up his ideas as if he were
a genius, a god among men!
And then it happened!
'Hey, ' one of them shouted
as they sat down at their usual table.
'We got Stan with us! '
I looked around. One of them
Proudly placed an urn on the table.
The four men smiled with the saddest
sort of satisfaction.
They needed a cab that night.
Having laughed themselves senseless,
Tears streaming down their faces
As they told stories into the night
about the boyhood of Stan,
the Mystery Man.
After placing them inside the cab,
I found under the urn, a tip like a
miracle in some childish dream.
Chasing the cab, waving the urn,
I almost caught up as it stopped
for a light, shouting 'Wait! '
We never saw the four friends again.
And since they always paid in cash
We never knew who they were exactly.
But now I know Stan, the Man,
Whose full name inscribed on the urn
Shows up in Google.
There he resides on my old, worn-out
Kitchen table, in an elegant Chinese urn.
And sometimes kneading dough for bread,
I'll recite some poetry or with a glass of wine,
Read some of my poems out loud, certain
He can hear….about making bread,
or amending the soil with compost,
Poems about sewing without a machine,
Cleaning house with vinegar, about the
Virtues of washing dishes in the sink,
poems about living and the simple joys
of poverty and waiting……
waiting tables, that is.