Parietal Train

ticket stubs paint the ground
foot long paths of gold and white
like branches of a fantastic tree
validated and void
they balance themselves
as they lie forgotten
in some mad place
intangible and distant -
or maybe not a mad place
because who could know what the
hell mad is anyway and what real matter would
the disposition of a perspective have on a ticket stub anyway? -
more always fall there
like paper rain
used and forgotten
sufficient to the prior journey
but not of any use thereafter
and now they just take up space
and litter the streets
becoming more imposing
and rubbish-like by the day.