Sustenance and Verse
by Doug Stoiber
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
According to papersowl.com, he didn’t steal it. All original work. Un-frickin’-believable!
If Marlo was capable of this kind of writing, how on God’s green earth could he be so hard up for food, clothing and shelter? Where did he go wrong? How has the world overlooked a talent like his?
As I slugged the words out in Calibri 12-point font, my conscience interrupted: first with a whisper, then a polite throat-clearing, followed by a diffident, “See here!”
Stupid conscience.
After two days off from work at the restaurant, during which I got a load of laundry done, among other things, I was back to work on Wednesday. It was not a particularly busy night, and I had time to consider the events of the previous days.
Such was my state of mind as I loaded up the garbage at the end of service. Thinking about my recent chat with Bethany, when I “dropped by” with a bowl full of navel oranges to thank her for letting me use her iron. Her eyes had widened at the sight of those beautiful golden fruit, and she told me how her boyfriend just loved oranges!
So there went that.
I had opened the trash enclosure gate and was just hoisting the first trash bag through the side access door to the dumpster, when a sound close behind me made me jump.
“JEEZ!”
“Sorry, Des!” said Marlo.
“Hey, man! You could’ve cleared your throat or something to let me know you were here! Wasn’t expecting a visit tonight, seeing as how you weren’t around the end of last week,” I said as I quickly checked the back door of the restaurant to make sure I hadn’t attracted any prying eyes. “I thought maybe you had moved on or something.”
Marlo apologized again. “I did kinda move on. Saturday night, while I was sleeping in a totaled SUV on the back of the lot, I had a visitor. The owner of the lot, carrying a flashlight in one hand and a shotgun in the other. I ran like hell, and he chased me out with a warning shot, I guess to impress on me that it was time I found alternative sleeping arrangements. Which I have — for now anyway — in the back of a boarded-up pest control business, about six blocks from here.”
“Wow, sorry, dude,” I sympathized. “What brings you back here? I mean, heck, let me get back in there and see what I can put together for dinner.”
“Nah, don’t sweat it, man. I found four pieces of pizza left in a box in back of the college cafeteria, so I’m full.”
“I’ll bet that was crap. You sure I can’t bring you something? I think there was some beef stew on the steam table, and—”
“Hey, no, man, you’ve taken enough chances for me already. No, I wanted to find out how you liked the poem I gave you,” he looked eager yet anxious as he said it.
“Oh, yeah, right!” I felt stupid, having almost forgotten his end of the bargain. “Marlo, I couldn’t believe it. Do you write stuff like that all the time? I mean, that poem was awesome!”
He dropped his head, like he was embarrassed, “Used to write lots of stuff, but conditions of late have not been conducive to dallying with my muse.”
“Well, let me tell you, your poem got me an A in Creative Writing and a big ‘attaboy’ from my prof.”
A crooked grin crept onto his face, and he asked, ” How did he like my poem?”
“It’s a ‘she’; my Creative Writing prof is a woman. And I didn’t show her your poem,” I informed him, which erased his smile.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “I thought you said my poem got you an A?”
“I didn’t turn in your poem but, after reading what you wrote, I was determined to come up with one on my own, thanks to the inspiration I got from you.”
Marlo was taken aback, but his toothless smile returned. “Wow, Des, that’s pretty neat. Way to go! Could I read your poem? I mean, you don’t happen to have it with you, do you?”
“As luck would have it, my friend, I can pull the poem up as a Google doc on my phone. You sit tight and outa sight here while I go in and get another load of trash. I’ll grab my phone and I’ll let you read it.”
I was about five feet from the back door when the Barbarian swung it open and semi-bellowed, “What the hell, did you get lost out there? What’s taking you so long?”
I stammered, “Sorry, there was... had to chase off a racoon that was blocking my access to the dumpster. Big ol’ sucker. Hope he’s not out there when I go back.”
Now, I really got up my nerve. “Hey, Gertz, can I grab a cannoli for the ride home? I didn’t get an employee meal tonight.” And I wasn’t fibbing. I figured, what the hell, he was already simmering, let’s see if I could get him to boil over.
“Take one. Jeez, you eat and drink in your car a lot. It must look like a pigsty!” He did me a favor in his inimitable way.
“Thanks, boss. I appreciate it.”
He nodded. “Thanks for breaking down the fry cook station, you did a good job.”
The Barbarian. What a sweetheart.
With a load of two garbage cans, I passed the coat rack by the back door and pulled my phone out of the breast pocket of my bomber jacket. I dropped the cannoli in a bag and headed back out the door.
Once again at the fenced enclosure, I glanced back at the rear door, and seeing no observers, I stagewhispered, “Marlo! Come on out.”
The hobo appeared. I handed him the pastry in the bag. “A little dessert for tonight.”
He took the bag with a polite “thanks”, but I could tell he was eager to get the phone and read my poem. So I thumbed the ‘docs’ app, and pulled up the one titled, “crtiv wrtg poem.” Even in the dark, he could easily read the backlit screen.
A few minutes went by as he studied the first few lines of my poem. His rheumy eyes got wider. He coughed and cleared his throat, and then he read out loud:
Repaid
by Desmond Drinnan
Out walking on a mindless errand, lost in thoughts of this and that
I came upon a bleak tableau, cruel Nature in its direst test.
A battered bird with broken wing, amid the weeds had come to rest.
Within three paces, coiled to spring, a hungry feral cat.I gave the matter scarce concern; the bird was doomed, it seemed to me.
If not the feline’s prey, it looked unlikely to survive the day
As trembling, hobbled, flightless, on unsteady legs it could but sway.
But turned to see me witness, in its eyes a mournful plea.The moment touched within my soul an instinct unexpected there.
I bellowed, charging at the cat, who snarling, turned and fled the scene.
Though just as startled by my rage, the bird froze right where it had been,
Unsure if death would conquer it within the human’s snare.My errand placed on hold for now, I slowly knelt to grasp the wretch,
It fluttered wildly, till at last, within my palms it settled back.
I sought a haven for the injured bird, a shelter from attack
Though in its wounded state, a quite immobile prey to catch.A shadowed ledge at window height, I placed the bird to rest a while.
With bottled water I had carried, poured a capful for its thirst.
On cracker crumbs from in my pack, the wounded casualty I nursed.
It ate, then seemed to sense a respite from its fearsome trial.And though near death, still found its voice, at first a purring warbled note,
But soon burst forth with raucous air a symphony of trilling tones
That stood my hair on end and shot a thrilling shimmer to my bones.
This music from a wounded bird became the poem I wrote.
He got to the end, but seemed to keep reading the lines over and over for a while. Then he looked at me in utter amazement. “Wow. Des, you wrote that? And that’s more than four stanzas.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, warming to his enthusiasm, “once I got going, I knew I had to finish it, no matter how long the poem ended up being.”
“Dang! And you wrote an A-B-B-A rhyme scheme. How cool is that? PLUS, your meter is 8-8-8-7. That’s the writer’s craft there, man!”
“Well, hey, listen,” I turned to look back at the restaurant, “I’ve got to get back and finish up the kitchen. But enjoy that cannoli, man. And thanks again for that great poem.”
“My pleasure, Des, it made me remember how much I love to write. Speaking of which, before you go... here’s one more I still owe you.” Once again, from within his grubby coat pocket, he produced a crisply folded paper and handed it to me.
“Thanks, Marlo. Hey, are you... you gonna be alright? I mean, safe place to stay and food and all that?”
“I get along. I just spend every day figuring out how to get to the next one. So far, it keeps happening. See ya if I see ya!”
And with that, the hobo walked around the chain link fence and into the darkness, disappearing as though he had never even been there.
I pocketed the paper and hustled back to the kitchen.
Gertz was waiting for me with his grumble face. “Kid, you got fifteen minutes to get this place squared away, Let’s GO!” he hollered.
As I strode toward the dishwasher, he caught my sleeve. In almost a whisper, he added, “And no more feeding the bums... you hear?”
I didn’t answer, or even shake my head, as it would have been tacit admission that I had done so. But Gertz knew I got the message. I finished up the kitchen, hung up my apron, got my jacket, clocked out and headed out the back door to the parking lot.
Once inside my sprung and battered Honda Civic, I keyed the ignition, but didn’t start the car. I turned on the dome light, retrieved Marlo’s poem, and read:
For the Least of These
I was hungry, and you gave me food to eat.
You could have chased me off or turned away,
Or scorned me, made my abject shame complete.
Instead, you helped me live another day.I was thirsty, and with me your water shared,
So cool and soothing to my parchèd tongue.
By actions, your benevolence declared,
Your generosity — till now — unsung.I was a stranger, and you offered me
The recognition as a human being.
Brought low by circumstances though I be,
Your kindness helped to salve privation’s sting.My life, with all its woeful waste and want
Is my responsibility to claim.
My choices badly made will ever haunt,
But in gratitude, I will recall your name.
And he signed it “Marlo.”
“For the Least of These” is quoted in the dedication of my first book of poetry, Sustenance and Verse, on sale at all major booksellers.
Copyright © 2025 by Doug Stoiber
