Linda Studley

The Ticket

I think I lost my ticket.
Or perhaps I bent, spindled,
mutilated or folded it illegible.

It happens that way sometimes
when you hold it in your hand too long,
twiddling it, fiddling with it,
absent mindedly clenching and
unclenching your hands around it
as though the destination could
be absorbed through the skin,
a sweat stained dermal transference.
So perhaps it was just a transfer I lost,
not the ticket.

Wait, here is the ticket in my pocket.
I take it out but cannot bring myself to read
the destination.

#240