When even hell has closed its doors
we’re waiting by the river shore
empty purses, swaying, waiting.
saying: we cannot pay the ferryman.
And every night the river suicides
will bring us back again.
Drying our wings at dawn.
The boys of town are hiding,
behind the sewer main,
dream between our legs,
They’re growing to be men,
with miner’s callous hands
soon to soil our wings.
Grace wants us to write poetry inspired by James Wright at Toads. This one is written in response to the poem named “In response to a Rumor that the oldest whorehouse in Wheeling, West Virginia has been condemned.” I have borrowed some sentiments and tried to talk the voice of the prostitutes. I will will also link this to Poetry Pantry.
December 13, 2014