Ticket

On the corner of Sutter and Powell. Tourists rage along the rails
of the trolly and throng along the sidewalks in fear of the iron-spined street.
Billboards are bigger, buildings are shinier, and shopping agendas
are strictly adhered to.
In all this I see her next to the trash
salvaging laces from shoes harvested from the bin. She, in dirty denim, clutches the plastic grocery sack that contains what she has for collateral.
I finish my eggs and she's long gone.
Those old shoes still sit on the bin telling everyone they don't have to sit in first-class
to fly.