There is a man who places

linen and silverware on tables.

He places linen and silverware

on tables. That is what he does

where people sit and eat.

They spoil the linen and soil

the silverware and they leave.

This man removes once

crisp linen and not too long

ago spotless silverware and

once again places immaculate

linen and gleaming silverware

upon tables for people once

again to do what they do

all day long and into the night.

He insists the linen be right

side up. The factory label

must not show. There is right

and wrong for even linen and

knives and forks and spoons

must be exact a certain distance

from the table edge. He uses

his first and middle finger side

by side to measure the distance

and napkins, but of course,

he folds to pyramids just so.

If no one sits where he has

worked he whisks his work

away despite his eye for

perfection, because this man

is of God. This man creates

the world with meticulous care

and leaves what he has done

for others though they take

for granted everything he

does. He means it so. He

enjoys the people. They

come to destroy his work.

He forgives them. He means

it so. He asks no recognition.

Waiters and waitresses

receive their tips. Cooks make

more money, but this man

presents all in anonymity

and cleans up afterward.

Without him, dining is

sheer barbarism. He provides

discipline and elegance which,

if only the world would

imitate, would make this place

the finest restaurant in town.