studying my teacher

He is new here.

Or so they say.

But sometimes I look at him and I think he is

not

new.

He has been here.

He is much older than I.

But old

or new.

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.