One type or another

Some come here to huddle from the cold,
some (whose machine’s too small)
haul bags of duvets,
some wait for contacts to arrive
with tiny wraps,
some fling backpacks
on the floor, disgorging
one worn week.

I walk past and wonder
whose the fine old letters are,
how long until
they’re ripped down,
skipped, replaced
by shiny plastic.