He walks the noisy streets, each
day his routine much the same. A
backpack filled with mysterious
things and a bottle of water are his
only worldly goods.
His day begins early with morning
traffic as workers rush to their jobs.
He steps out on the sidewalk moving
against the cars as he walks, talking
to invisible people who seem to
accompany him.
As morning moves to noon, his tanned
skin begins to glisten with sweat. He
removes a worn jacket and one of his
shirts and stuffs them into the backpack.
I've often wondered how far he travels
until it's time to turn and head home,
wherever home may be. Tonight home
will be a box under the bridge.
Tomorrow will be the same, as he
steps out with a backpack full of
special things and the sidewalks of the
city his own.
