small, decorative objects

I have an unhealthy obsession
with small, decorative objects.
Quirky, artistic; with patterns
intrinsically pleasing to the eye.
They extract a pleasant sigh.

Such superfluous items worry me.
I'd like to survive on only what I need?
Images of children with distended
bellies rat-a-tat-tat in my head,
knocking on the guilty door,

I know it is not the desire for
a fat car, cigars or Beluga caviar,
but my addiction holds it own vanity.
Disparity is debatable, always.

It's the box the cigars came in,
made into a bag.
It's the girl smiling in sepia,
from the hood of a classic car,
in an antique photograph.

I don't know her. She's no relation
besides the quaint sisterhood of
my love learned from books on
compassion. I liked the way
the light fell on her 40's pin curl,
 was appreciative of the sly curve of her lips,
her promising hips, all fashioned in
a cupid's bow.

I have so many small objects,
trinkets; I am a secret delinquent.
A collector of detail professing
simplicity, simultaneously
hoarding a trove.