Adrienne Veronese

The Golden Ticket

They sleep on bus station floors
wrapped in each other
on well-bought sleeping bags,
their guitar the perfect piece
of accent furniture
for shelving shoes & other sundries.


By virtue of boarding pass, they
are not forced to sleep outside the margins.

In a world of golden tickets
and pockets making little more
than fashion statements
Herman Hess lingers by their side
despite being split in two
weathered and torn
reminding us of Siddhartha's
lost forgotten bedroom slippers.

& in a world of revisionist history where
he is slouching toward Satori
on a crowd sourced trajectory,
where just beyond city's financial
towers looming over lost horizons
we just as easily walk on gilded splinters
past tech industry's golden calf,
continue down Mission Street toward Market
to a place where golden tickets never go,
A place where piss soaked sleeping bags
are old and worn — if there at all
& there is little memory of anything

but lost dreams among the hopeful

of shoes left by a door that locks at night.


& finding yourself at this ridiculous task
of reconciling the balance of shiny things
look once again before averting your eyes
& tell yourself,
“So, it has all come to this."

For Lew Welch
San Francisco
Nov 29, 2017



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