When I see a homeless man walk by, I wonder where he’s going.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi there,” I said.

And this guy walked right past our house. Where did he come from? And where is he going?

Where are any of us going? And where did any of us come from?

I don’t understand us. I’m not sure that I know what home or place is.

We want to get somewhere–but we can’t. Or we can–and we don’t want to be there any longer. After we get there, we want to hurry back. Or we don’t.

We hurry, pause (“Huh huh huh” goes the breath), hurry again, scurry, shuffle, sprint, slam on the brakes.

It’s really hard to know what to make of us. What do we really want? What is it all for? Do we know? Have we considered? I’d like to know.

It’s not nothing, though, that we keep going. Sometimes I admire homeless people who push a cranky cart onward or who, with crooked backs, limp forward. There’s a tableau here. It may be early afternoon in midsummer, and the heat, wavering and shimmering in the street, may show no mercy.

There is time to weep.