How do we prevent people from sleeping on the benches without making them uncomfortable for legitimate use?

I am a bench. I stand in the park, by the bus stop, at the edge of the square. I am made to hold you up when your legs are tired, to let you watch the world go by, to offer your coffee a resting place while you scroll on your phone. But lately, people worry about me. They say I attract sleepers—people who curl up on me for hours, who use me as a bed. And then the fuss begins: “We must stop them. But we must not hurt the ones who just want to sit.”

So here is my honest, benchly advice.

First: give me a gentle hump in the middle—just a small one. Not a cruel spike, not a metal bar that digs into your back, but a soft curve that whispers, “Lying flat is not my purpose.” You can still sit cross-legged on my ends, still drape your bag, still stretch your legs. But when you try to lie flat, I will politely remind you that my spine has its own idea.

Second: add armrests—but make them movable. One armrest per seat divider, and let it swing down if a parent needs to sit with a child, or if someone wants to lean sideways. I will become a collection of friendly chairs, not a flat mattress. Sleepers will find it awkward to stretch out, but legitimate users will still feel welcome to chill, read, or people-watch.

Third: give me a surface that is slightly sloped—not so much that coffee cups slide off, but enough that a rolled-up jacket can’t become a pillow. A 5-degree tilt toward the back makes sitting comfortable but sleeping unstable. My texture should be patterned wood or textured metal, not smooth marble—a small friction that whispers, “This is for sitting, not dreaming.”

Fourth: put me near light. Not blinding floodlights, but soft, warm illumination that makes me feel safe for everyone. Darkness invites lying down; gentle light invites conversation. Place me where people naturally linger—a cafe’s outdoor edge, a library’s quiet corner—and I will be used for what I am meant for.

And finally, remember: the person who sleeps on me may have nowhere else to go. So if you really want to stop sleep, offer them a real bed nearby. A shelter bench. A soft place. Because the kindest prevention is not a cruel design—it is a better alternative.

I am a bench. I want to hold you, not trap you. Sit with me, rest your legs, sip your coffee. But please, if you need a bed, let the city build one for you. Until then, I will keep my gentle hump, my friendly armrests, and my soft tilt—waiting for the sitters, while never forgetting the sleepers.