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The cigarette, that some sympathetic commuter shared with me, was burning down. I always enjoyed the last few hits and this was no exception. For the moment, I forgot about the old man and about myself. Instead, I focused on the sounds and smells around me. It was a typical business day rush hour. The air was thick with exhaust and sweet burning motor oil. Random horns gave variety to the mundane everyday sounds. It was an oddly warm day, promoting the locals to open their windows and blast their stereos, adding additional life to the streets. My meditation was broken by the burning sensation given off by the cigarette as it burned to its core. I tossed the burnt filter aside and woke up to a bright world.

Suddenly, the old man was no so old anymore. He couldn't have been more than a few months older than my thirty seven years. His face appeared grateful as he pocketed a generous five dollar donation. Apparently he reached his reserve, since he soon rested his cardboard sign against the busted bucket on which he was sitting and went on his way. I was comforted by this image, as it gave promise that I may yet be able to afford to fill my increasingly hungry form. I arose from my shadowed shelter under the bridge and, once traffic began to move again, took my rightful spot on the now unoccupied corner, cardboard sign in hand.