He is new here.
Or so they say.
But sometimes I look at him and I think he is
He has been here.
He is much older than I.
It doesn’t much matter.
I know he has something to teach me.
So I study the dents of his knuckles.
I study the rolls of his neck.
I breathe him in deep.
Lightly brush my hand across the tufts of his hair.
Listen to his shallow breathes.
Listen for his deep sighs.
Waiting for his lessons.