The Ticket

I am handled, never caressed

Some people say I’m just the ticket,

but depend utterly on my being.

They swipe, bite, tear and fold

I just take it lying down,

a flat homage to advantage.

I detest the gift and credit plastic, long life bastards,

all respected for their durability,

with expiry date embossed for good measure.

I have history though,

Children would collect me,

For cosmic characters and swollen lollipops.

I’ve been around; and rectangular,

Probably a triangle too

Enough shapes to make constellations weep.

Insert, deject, crumple and discard

I am only too familiar with rejection,

They say I’m just a ticket, bitter and implicit.