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On These Streets

An Old Poem:

Cracked sidewalks
follow the stampede
of the craze
of the holidays.
Rain drops as tears
down onto pavement
as the stampede
continues to gather
their gifts
and spend their generosity.
In all the midst
of the holiday spirits,
they never look down.
They never stop to see.
Here they go again,
frantic to buy
for those they love,
but what about me?
When they go,
all I will have
are the stains of rain
on concrete
and the cracks
running through them.
All I will have is
a cardboard box
that won’t keep the cold out.
Did I want their pity?
Did I want their
narrow eyes
to judge me
when once I stood
where they are
only to fall down here?
The world costs more
than to live,
but those safe
inside its womb
fear to peek out
at the lost
because they
might become me.
No, I do not want
their pity.
No, I do not want
to be the lost.
My choice was forced,
but they could have
stopped for a moment
with an open hand.

On These Streets
By, Melissa R. Mendelson

economyhelpmoneystreets

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