Every morning when I come to work, for almost the entire five years I‘ve worked in the building at the corner of Broken Dreams and Crushed Spirit , I pass the homeless guy who decided long ago that my intersection would be his pre-noon turf. He sits on an upside down, red Avondale milk case, and empty Styrofoam coffee cup in his right hand.  Jiggling the cup, rattling the loonies, quarters and dimes within, he taps his foot and sings.

 “This little light of mine,” he sings. His voice isn’t bad, either. “I’m gonna let it shine.”

Every day, the same song. Oh, if you hang around at the corner long enough, you’ll hear him insert a “Can you spare a dime”, but he sings it, weaves it right into the fabric of the song. Tune perfect. Rhythm perfect. Always the same song. For five years.

“He’d make more money if he sang a different song once in a while,” said my boss just last week, as if he has only just realized that the man sings the same song. “Vary the pace.”

The man may not change his tune, but he himself has been changed. When he first arrived on the corner, he looked healthy. His skin had a glow. He was newly homeless—or at least he told everyone who’d listen about how his wife had kicked him out and he refused to get a real job, refused to get a permanent address because he didn’t want her getting his hard-earned money. I listened to his story and met his refusals with my own: I wouldn’t give money to a man who used homelessness to get back at his family. (Female solidarity.) His hair was neat, his eyes were bright, he mostly made sense. Not any more. Gradually—but not so gradually that we didn’t notice—he has deteriorated. First, he lost weight. Or did he lose the spark in his eyes first? His hair grew long and unkempt; he looked scary—not the clean-cut young man of yesteryear. He developed an aversion to touch. If someone brushed against him on the busy corner, he’d respond with hostility, an automatic, “Don’t touch me, man. Fuck off! Don’t touch me!” It became obvious he suffered from some mental problem. I’m afraid it became obvious why his wife kicked him out. He still tells the story, but I don’t believe him any more. I drop the odd loonie or toonie into his Styrofoam. In winter, I buy him the occasional hot chocolate on frigid days. “Thank you, sister,” he says. “This little light of mine………..”

His eyes now have a vacant, yet wild, stare. His hair and beard have grown to Jesus length. His hostility has grown worse, though he still says, “Hey, that’s a lovely sweater (or coat, or blouse or bag)” when you add to his coin collection, before falling back to “This little light of mine……

Yesterday, as I approached from across the street, I heard him singing. “All in all, it’s ………just another break in the wall. All in all……………”

I’m thinking that would be a psychotic break. Now or very soon.

Today, he’s back to his old standby tune. I can’t help wondering, just how much longer will his little light shine?