Bill Placher

a monument to humility,
he’d lean back against the chalkboard,
always to dirty his cordoruy blazer
unknowingly,
and with a deep interest,
he’d posit a one-word response,
beckoning more out of us,
students – no – friends,
a casual chat in the classroom –
no – the living room, as it were,
our scarlet house,
where he could have locked his mind
in towers too tall for our reach,
but no, he lived communion
unlike any ever seen,
and sat with us
breaking bread,
seemingly as perplexed,
yet so much the wiser,
that curious smile to never be forgotten,
and the way his nose seemed lost
somewhere in his glasses
when he laughed a laugh
that carried down
the creaky oak hallways,
a face of warmth and welcome,
I, too, would like to reflect,
if ever I could.