Early Bird

You see him coming from across the street, thick finger like a knockwurst jabbing at the sky, mouth yawning black and round like an inkspot on a white balloon. "Early bird!" he bellows, and the shout comes from his heels for he lifts them up and leans back on a current of air like a stockbroker sitting on his coattails. He steps on the bus as it sighs up to the curb. "Early bird! Early bird! FFFFFUCK yewww!" He swings his briefcase before him and shouts wildly at the bus driver, jacket flying. His shouts go tinny as the doors hiss shut. When you look up, his eyes like wind-worn glass are turned to you, the mouth a thin seam in the puff-blown face.