Now, the other hobos think I’m just one of the guys. These roommates aren’t selfish. They don’t ask me to clean up after them. They make a mess, I make a mess. No one minds. They take a dump under a bush, I throw them my old newspapers. They think I’ve had it worst of all of them. After all, I look like I’ve spent seventy years in the sun. And after every night, I seem older. Now, I blend in. I belong. The underpass belongs to me.