gas money

the woman approaches you
in the lot. it's cold.
it's dark. nearly eleven
o'clock. you've eaten
and a had a drink, quietly
she walks up on soft shoes
and explains
her lack of money,
the jam she's in, she
points out towards
the cars at the far end,
tells you her daughter,
who is two is in the car,
waiting. she just needs
a few dollars for gas, maybe
a little more for food.
her hand is out, her eyes
are dark with begging,
and lying, her face
is as pale and lost as any
face you've seen under
a stark winter moon.
how you can't give her
money, you aren't sure,
but you don't. you go home
and write about her.