But What's He WANT?

I must admit that I’ve become concerned.
It is 6:52.  I am moments, and blocks, from the beginning of a new work week, a fact that is not lost on my iPod, which responds by playing a requiem by Mozart.
The bus pauses in front of the Minneapolis Central Library, as a bus will do. 
A grand structure known for floors upon floors of books for the borrowing, long lines of children in matching tee-shirts giggling their way through an online dictionary in search of multi-syllabic words for “fart”, and sketchy dudes sprawled on the front steps, the Minneapolis library is near a bus stop.
I turn from my seat, toward the double doors leading into the library and see what I have seen every day for the last two weeks.
Stock still, his back to the street, a man stands perhaps two feet from the library’s entrance, leg akimbo, arms hanging heavy at this sides.  He is wearing more articles of clothing than is necessary for June in Minneapolis.
I stare at his back, willing him to move.
He does not.
He is waiting.
But what is he waiting for?
For its opening, in three hours?
For a “sign”?
For someone to hit “Play”?
Holy Hannah, is that man stuck on Pause?
He doesn’t move.  
He doesn’t scratch himself, check a watch, or shift his feet.
He is waiting.
But for what?