Not Magic

The man who owned the bookstore was not magic.
Far from it
He was as farthest from magic a man could be
with his tiny glasses perched at the end of his nose
a small, wiry frame
and wispy thin white hair
almost ready to be blown off his head

He never recognized me
no matter how many times I came in
during a month

He was too busy with his nose in a book
transported to another time and place
each tome on his shelves
a magic carpet ride of the imagination

Was he in outer space?

Deep sea diving with fantastical tenacled sea creatures?

Having a love affair with a countess?

Slaying a dragon in front of a medieval castle?

On a voyage to a new land?

Or just sitting in a sun dappled garden waiting for his beloved?

There was no way I could tell
as I waited for him to emerge from the book’s depth
to ring up the tattered paperback in my hand.

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