And there
she was,
between
platforms.
Withered
face, deep set blue eyes,
veiled
hair and a toothless smile.
I’d
seen her in stories.
The tiny
foil folded flower
she held
for me
hushed
Rome Termini.
Painstakingly
created,
juxtaposing
her leathery hands.
I
plucked it from the unlikely delicateness of her fingers
and thanked
her sincerely.
Faux
goodwill melted from her face,
as my naivety
dawned on us both,
her
hands formed a heart-sized bowl.
The suspended
station click-clacked back to a roar.
Money!
She stabbed
Money!
I
tried to give the flower back,
but she let it fall.
And
as it disintegrated
into
mere trash on the station floor,
she pinched
me and drew blood.
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