A poor man's poem by Derek Melton

Rich man’s gate, prolonged wait, hunger pains so real,

Searing heat, strength deplete, hoping for a meal;

Noon time past, I cannot last, eyes are growing dim,

Hopes are fading, anticipating, but how it looks so grim.



In the heap, where life is cheap, a pauper at my birth,

While across the gate, a rich man’s fate, ease and royal worth;

In the air, foods so rare, tease my lack with taunt,

Only a taste, of a rich man’s waste, would satisfy my want.



Excreting sores, my stench deplores, all that pass by me,

They all frown, at the ground, where I ooze and bleed;

My only help, the dogs that yelp, inside the rich man’s gate,

Use their tongues, to clean my wounds, they do not hesitate.



Dirt wrapped skin, Sunday morn; ghetto stench fills my nose,

Successful folk, in fancy cars, ritzy Sunday clothes;

Hilltop steeple, white collared people, religious songs I hear,

But here am I, cursed with need, and none of them come near.



Their blinded eyes, cannot see, a wounded Christ in me,

They turn their heads, and pass me by, no disrupting Sunday glee;

But as their fun-day, routine Sunday, food and much delight,

Much neglected, poor man rejected, hopelessly afflicted in his plight.



The church today, in much disarray, living for satisfaction,

While ignoring, the poor man's need, neglecting holy action;

We must awake, while there’s time, responding to their need,

A rich man’s fate, we just might find, without excuse to plead.

Derek L. Melton 6/11