At 1 AM by a transit shelter down on Southwest Main Street, pacing in the rain, he approached me quiet. He wondered aloud if his route had been expired. The man was looking tired, at least to my eyes. He said, "What about the path that I must take to my home? What about the means that I must use as I roam?"

I said, "My friend, now please don't fear, your bus is drawing near, you just can't see it yet." He nodded then, visibly yet slightly struck by seventeen words of luck, and rested on the bench. He said, "When I go out I'm always worried I'll need to beg a loan. When I go out I'm always sure to have toll for the payphone."

We sat there watching as the homeless passed, all grocery carts and glass, their tin cans for deposit coins. When his number pulled up to the painted line, my new friend smiled fine and waved by the entrance. And I thought, "When you're en route, don't forget the let the world fall off of you. When you're en route? When you're en route, just remember that the weary day's through."