The Termini Flower

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.