on the other side of the street

on the other side of the street
there is no pride, only humility
the kind that strips her of dignity
so naked
she bears her life on the cold, dirty pavement
every possession
for everyone to see
worth measured by hasty, shame-filled glances of passers-by

on the other side of the street
there is no humility, only pride
the kind that hastens his pace
so fast
he walks with his head held high
every possession
for everyone to see
worth measured by the change he refuses to part with

from where I stand
the only separation between the two
is an extended hand

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