Image Junkyard #4 (Week One)

Rome, the train station. Looks more a mall Stateside than anything. And for a moment I felt home, what with the McDonald's and looming four-by-four tower of Beyonce. Until I asked for a bathroom. Mistook his smile and pointed finger for a yes, up the stairs. For the first time I see how charm changes the colors of words. Downstairs. That's where they kept bano. Clean, for a couple euro. By the exit, a man in a wheelchair. Head down and covered white. Blanketed legs, hiding his box where legs should or once would be kept on the peddles. He's half asleep and trying to sale something like newspaper, an open hand palmed-up for the people as they pass. I cringe, cower inside my journal and discuss his home life, a family or wife? No. He's alone, I know. In the pocket of my wallet, loose change, enough for food or conversation. But I have no Italian; he unaware of exactly how small my America. He chins toward the thought and I cannot even look him in the eyes. Now a woman, squat at his side. She is much better, more suitable for this world.