Trans-Actions Poem by Chi

“At 90, my son, you’d definitely own
a store like this”, the twisted,
back-bent old man, leaning on a cane stick
stammered to the young skull-cap clad manager-assistant.

His eyes made a circle round the perimeter of the store,
following the edge
of his cane stick, which came back to rest
on the floor where he stood.

I began to chuckle,
then burst out into quiet laughter.

“Won’t that be good? ” the assistant said,
concluding the return by handing over to the old man his new receipt.

“Thank you, my son. I appreciate your effort”, he said,
commending the young man’s uncanny explanation.

I watched him slowly leave the store, chuckling to himself,
his extended Adam’s apple shaking
as he took all the time in the world
to walk out of the vestibule.

The managing assistant finished signing the return slips,
asked me to counter-sign, then closed the register,
and left to attend - as usual -
to the fixtures on the store floor.

I wasn’t sure I would be seeing the old man in the store
following the coming winter.