Professor Plum.

When he strolls in, my first thought is:

"I like his bag."

He is carrying a messenger bag,

coloured like the skin of a kiwi,

a bag I have always wanted.

Planted with old, waterlogged volumes,

the subjects he teaches,

full of words and stories in twisting grapevines.

It is sinking your teeth into cold, fresh peaches,

after so long of the same, sluggish lessons,

that could swallow you up and turn you inside out.

He thinks of favourite words like pulling plums from a tree,

Freely scattered so we could pick them up.

He is especially unremarkable;

a worn, leather book in a library,

with spelling mistakes here and there.

Now, that we know that he has been something to us,

something like a teacher;

His apologies and polite and witty zingers.

And his utter delight in getting his own room.

And his 'thank-you' as we walk out the door.

His dictionary full of plums,

like a clean jar for a fresh pickle,

taking us by the collar and pulling us along;

To a world not particularly cared about,

But that we watched him tell us about,

with the magic of a verdant wild,

among fruit trees.

And, before we go out into this world that smells

like rotten strawberries under the green,

Some of us will carry satchels,

planted with opinions and stories of our own,

And his opinions and peppermint candies,

swinging by our side.

He was a peddler, and he wore a coat to show it,

pilgrim of arts and 8-ball,

a shrine to the obsolete;

Professor Plum.

What he knows, he will give you like lifelong trinkets,

and be gone the next day.

[I may redraft this another day]

- :D