At 1 AM by a transit shelter down on South west 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.'