He Comes In With the Sun

He comes in with the sun, the schizophrenic beggar-artist, at eight a.m. There are no warning sirens. Through the peep-hole, only the glare of the sun, possibly intentional, but I know it's him. The doorbell isn't working, he will not stop clapping. I throw on a robe and open the door. I see him out by the fence. "Not today," I say. "Okay, man, okay." He goes away.

It's too late to go back to bed. It's too early for everything else, especially this.