A Lazarus body litters the sidewalk
outside a well-lit, desolate lobby.

On the left is a mexican restaurant,
with a line reaching to the
entrance. They should stamp
the grey and scratched up
plexiglass with a light and
dark purple neon:
Welcome To America.
It would be reinforced
by every delicious crunch
one hears on the way out as
cheap crumbs garnish concrete.

On the right, there’s a bar
alive on a Friday night.
Friends share hearty laughs
and pats on the back.
The bitter and the perishing
pretend they want this
when they should be
somewhere or someone else.
And mingling singles look for
compliments and numbers,
or maybe just someone to
take back and **** the **** out of.

But in the midst sits
a throne for ghosts.
Ceiling fluorescent reflects
off porcelain, paler than a farmer tan.
There are no other colors besides
the receptionist, bored to death,
leaning on the wall behind
the porcelain reception desk,
reading a copy of Ebony.
No ottomans or chesterfields
or benches. No consoles or cocktail
tables. Nothing adorning the walls.
Not even a stain.
Just a white hole, a bright
***** in an otherwise colorful
street on gray canvas.

I rise from my slumber
and mosey on out the lobby
in my purple linen suit.
The impoverished scrag,
his dog lapping his sores, asks
if I’d spare some change.

“Sorry, I only have card tonight.”

“That’s alright, sir. God bless.”

And I walk on, aware of the
Abrahams rubbing up against
a ****** in my wallet. I take a sip
of whiskey hidden in my empty
can of a drink that can never
satiate me. I wait for traffic to pass,
and then I jaywalk across Sticks St.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

You are a sentence uttered quietly
Hollowly
Under breath.

You are on-show from the flashy coffees to the rushed sandwiches swallowed whole, to the bottles of wine spontaneously indulged on on the commute home.
Yet you have never felt so hidden.

You make people feel things they don't want to feel on these errands.
These pointless tasks that amount to all.
Guilt
Shame
Annoyance
Discomfort
Concern

But there are more of you now than before.
A whole library of the same sentence.
The reply is always empty.

7 billion people in the world; they say you can’t love every one,
But shouldn’t all 7 billion at least be loved by someone?
We all have our circles of family and friends,
And I’m not saying love them any less,
But what about those who aren’t as blessed?
Who loves them in their distress?
Who will look beyond the mistakes
And weep with them in their heartache?

Who weeps for the woman holding the sign
At the off-ramp for all the cars in a line,
Bearing looks of disdain behind rolled up windows
Bearing more shame as each car goes?
A helping hand might stretch out food or a twenty
But none of that helps when she says she’s so lonely,
That she’s “so **** depressed” as people drive right on by.
Who stands with her as tears fill her eyes?

Who weeps for the man on the bench waiting
For an opportunity to come, as his hope’s fading?
A former carpenter, skilled with his hands,
Willing to work but not given a second chance.
He hides his desperate eyes behind sunglasses
From all the wealth and comfort as it passes.
He doesn’t know where the past 7 months have gone,
But he’s not searching for that, just somewhere he belongs.

Who weeps for the girl who doesn’t lie about her “needs”,
Her cardboard asking for money, food, alcohol, and ****?
And for her request, it’s judgement she’s received
From people who don’t know she’s been on the streets since 16,
Kicked out of the house at the hands of abuse
By an alcoholic father who has a short fuse.
Her life reduced to just the next meal;
Who cares for her when she says it’s no big deal.

Who weeps for the man who sits on the steps
Trying to fight his addiction to ****?
He wants to change; he knows it’s ruining his life.
He lost his restaurant, his home, and even his wife.
Brochures in hand from multiple rehab centers,
The last thing he needs are glances calling him  sinner.
He needs someone who will help him through the fight.
Who will walk with him just to make it through the night?

Who weeps for Kat, Zona, Lilith and Robert
And so many like them going through hurt?
The answer to this question I’ve posed:
It’s the One whose tears matter most.
A God not distanced from His creation
But who weeps for the pain in all of the nations,
Who weeps over death even though there’s life in His name,
Who calls those who mourn blessed because He comforts them again.
Jesus loves all the least of these:
The poor in spirit, the beggar, and the meek.
He welcomes the marginalized and ostracized,
The minimized and disenfranchised,
And it’s not until we realize
This truth with our own eyes
Will we no longer just stand by.

We don’t have to tell Him about all this injustice
Because He is a sovereign God who can be trusted.
He cares about them more than we ever could,
It is in His nature to always be good.
Again, who weeps for them?
Jesus weeps BECAUSE He is for them.
He’s promised to bring healing and restore all things.
He will wipe away every tear as our King of kings.
But while this time is not yet, we shouldn’t be idle.
Out own comfort and self-preservation should not be an idol.
So go out and love and weep, but not as a project to help others,
Rather because everyone is an image bearer of God, our sister and brother.
Be ready to wait, to walk, to love, to feed His sheep
And do so in the strength of a God who loves, a God who weeps.

the house across the street
has been empty
for years
because the landlord can’t afford
to tear it down
or build a new one
and it won’t pass inspection

one lamp stays on
all day
all night
to deter the copper thieves
or any other broken soul
seeking shelter
from the streets

a child runs across the splintered floor
his feet black as tar
stinking of mildew and *****
a mother sinks into her soiled chair
but she tries

a trust-fund recipient rides his jet-ski
his oiled body
tanned and toned
a father, gleaming, takes a photo
and he flaunts

everyone has their own place in the world
in a trailer park
in a tent
in a split-level home
in a shelter
in a palace

but never on the pavement
beaten down
like a poorly-trained dog
blamed for the errors
of its master