he climbs aboard the bus
denying all offers of help


he rides most every day i do
he due to neccessity,
me more of a luxury,
the luxury being i can take part in
long, lightly alcohol, lubricated lunch discussions,
after  teaching class and then not having to decide
whether to drive or bus.

he is old, so very old,
each movement is both precise
and yet wavering, as he makes his way to his seat
then, as he thuds down,the bus moves off again

he rests awkwardly, the slight corkscrew in his spine
causes him to perch, more than sit,
the calves in his legs flexing constantly,
making adjustments, so he remains balanced
ever on the precipice...

yet he smiles, a wide toothy
grin, as he acknowledges
the crowd, most by name...
for that alone, he is a legend.

he is dressed in khaki shorts
double pocketed shirt,
one pocket for pens
and one for the pipe
that even unlit,
has an odour though not unpleasant,
it is slightly oppressive.

and across his chest the wide band
of the old leather satchel he carries,
often filled with books on a myriad of subjects
but sometimes empty bar an old thermos

he is the universities oldest student,
old enough to be father and grandfather
to those who teach him.
he has multiple degrees and a love of learning
yet to be assuaged, he loves the gathering of knowledge
the ****** and parry of intellectual debate

he is known as Mr Proffessor
and often has a group of his younger peers
set about him as he leads younger minds
down the oft convuluted paths of learning

but today he is an old man, on the bus.
trying to maintain his balance...
and I admire his style