It was me
who lost the debit card, mom.
I am sure of it now.
My sister had told me
to hold her wallet,
which contained that
money-laden piece of plastic,
while she slipped into restroom
and while you waited in line
for the restroom.

Me, I stepped out of
Au Bon Pain first
to feel the sunny rays
tunnel through the humidity
of a morning that had been
full of rain, to taste the
sweet aura the air radiated
just an hour before noon.
Holding that blue wallet,
my breath warm and damp,
the whistle of cars
like a symbol of prosperity
as they glided past me
on this remarkably
beautiful spring day.

And then
my mind blanks here,
but I do recall seeing a beggar.
Enjoying the sunlight,
the same way I did---
he was sitting, leaning against
the brick wall,
his “Boston”-capped head
tilted toward the sun as if it was his
Savior
and I couldn't bear
to note the empty dog bowl
in front of his dirt-crusted shoes.

But it was my sister's wallet, after all.
I hadn't brought mine.
To resist the temptation
I remember entering back into
the cool air-conditioned building.
My sister remembers
thinking that I would keep
her possession safe as we
purchased black-and white tickets,
as we boarded the subway
for the 10 minute journey ride home.

And now, this is my confession:
I somehow lost the wallet that day.
I also didn’t give anything to the beggar.