Petty Cash

I saw her in the street asking for money.

Though it was February the sun in Rome was bright, a perfect spring day.

She came at me with a smile,

I skirted wide around her.

Sneaky smiling like that, I thought.

If she does not raise a round sum will she be beaten black and blue

by a husband or father, someone that she is slave to?

Where are her starving children? She looks a child herself.

I would rather watch the ancient white fountains

 spraying in the square

than contemplate

her fate.

Change in my pocket for a wisp of lunch and a wad of paper bills

saved for a sweet perfume that I had not worn in years,

it seemed a relic of the past but the desire to make myself special

to no one else if not me resuscitated.

 

The oily scent on my wrists would transform me,

make me more worthwhile,

to whom and why

I could not say.

On the doorstep of the shop

smelling of vanilla, sandalwood and vetiver,

my long saved treasure in hand and a tiny bit

for a bite to celebrate myself all at once,

I find her.

 She has forgotten me and moved on to the next stranger,

but the perfume conquers me no more,

nor am I hungry for my little lunch.

I will not give her my petty cash, nor will I spend it on myself.

I will keep it for another day,

for something that I desire intensely like the sweet smell

of Vanitas or Ambra Aura on my arms but now, that desire is cold and desolate

because she has forced herself into my mind and there is no room for me.