Improv: “In Response to a Rumor That the Oldest Whorehouse in Wheeling, West Virginia, Has
Been Condemned” by James Wright
Beyond the riverside against the grain of Ohio’s
border she grieves alone in the hobo light, her coat
askew with vinegar and buttons sewn without thread.
She pondered and gazed at the open doors of the maid
who drowns in the lock and key at the Hilton.
Who grasps the hand of one who was always drowning
in the Ohio’s dissidence? Or wonder still, how the brothel
women carrying trench coats in Virginia’s stale air
belittle her so, when only two shores lead the way to
salvation or to the tender smell of ripe peaches you
only find in Georgia.
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