Haunted city

Ghosts are speaking softly
as they walk past my routine
Shuffling and spitting
acting like they can't be seen
They go to other places
that my travels do not find
Lost in all the people
with their paychecks countersigned.

Their worn and weary countenance
so rarely sees the sun
Jobs they loved are in their past
as well as all their fun
For happiness in moments
they go buy it in the back
some legal mostly not they know
so well what all they lack.

How to find the good news
that they all deserve to hear?
Proclaimed and preached and served up
but still seeming less than near.
Hopeless walkers, shabby seekers
tread the streets bereft of joy:
A day or hour of ease is all
they want 'til sleep's employ.

A better job than three they have
and work that's there's to do
is mission-goal enough for them
the message that gets through.
If they can find a way to live
in light, with love, no fear,
then standing in that listening place
Good News they'd truly hear.