He stands at the corner and rages against the world. He sways, and pleads with the sun to deliver some relief.
He stops in the middle of the intersection, arms spread wide ready to receive. He tips his head back and screams into the sunrise, building his case for more than the warm rays on his face. He stacks his bike and bags on the curb ready to carry him away once his sermon is done, once the sun is fully up and he's lost the promising golden glow of the wee morning hours. Then, he'll pedal off into another day on the streets.
Homophone typo in curb and kerb? one is by the side of the road.
I saw him once lost in his reflection in a shop window during rush hour. The whole city moving past.