My Wallet and I

My wallet, Made of shining black leather. I bought it a decade ago, From a Lacoste shop. It fitted well in the rear pockets Of my blue denims. It was happy, Stuffed and loaded with notes, Of different strengths. It even looked overjoyed when I tucked in your photograph in one of its slots with a tiny window. Whenever I took it out, It smelt like a bank, and we, my wallet and I, Were a pair of happy-go-luckies. Despite its blindness, It could perceive, to my amazement, The shades from the smells: Of cash in particular, and of Seasons, apparels, wine, And earrings in general. My wallet Retired with me a year ago, and The both of us knew, Happy days would be over soon. I remember the night, When I heard it murmuring under the pillow, With unusual stammering and nudging. Worried about its restlessness, I asked, - what's wrong with you? After a long silence, I heard it saying, - what are these stiff cards for? - the sharp edges are cutting my belly. - where are the sweet smelling notes? - what good is it, for me, to be folded, - without the invincible greens? - I'm missing them like never before, and - my pouch is empty. I'm starved. I had no answers, and Sadly remained silent. My wallet Is aged and slow now. Tiny dog-ears are growing out of its corners, and A foul stench emits from its bruised and No longer neat leathery folds. However, It hasn't lost its sense of aromas, and Money-wise arithmetical brilliance. It hates ATMs, and complains When I slide in a two-grand note into its fold, - what are you feeding me with? - you think I'm a tramp, huh! - what is this scrap of cheap paper for? - and two-grand in one ordinary print! - For heaven's sake, - how am i going to say 'keep the change', - after i buy you a twenty bucks cup of latte? - it isn't my kind of accompaniment, - begone with it, goddammit! This is money now - I replied helplessly. And my wallet never speaks to me again.