Nine Fifty Five

To the man sleeping on the bus stop,

I see you here everyday.
You're rather decently dressed to be the man sleeping on the bus stop, aren’t you?
It's nine fifty-five in the morning.
And you look quite fresh.
Did you shower at home and decide to come lie here?
Or do you not have a home at all.
Your hair is grey but your mustache is black, which makes me believe you’re a frequent user of the cheap liquid hair dye they sell in a pouch.
You seem quite comfortable here.
In fact, on occasion, I’ve even seen you turning on your side to make sure the sunlight is falling on your newspaper just the way you want it to.
I'm not surprised you can read. I'm glad that you can. But can you comprehend what you're reading?
How much money are you carrying in the pockets of your dark brown trousers today? Is it currency? Or loose change? I would bet on it to be both.
And are you, in the least bit concerned about losing those intricate creases on your clean white shirt?
Anyway, now that I've beat around the bush enough, what I really wanted to ask you was, isn't the metal from these new steely bus stops really cold to sleep on?