Guest Poet Sam Wilson

Fat Tuesday

Antiques staring out the dark windows, stand    
and reflect the  sex-toys, strip-joints, she-hunks,
strung-out street players, needle-armed blues band,
half-shell shuffling hustlers stalking the  drunks
stumbling  in vomit, piss,  ashes and leaves. 
Electric streetcar-shavings fly and dance 
on  the  rise of  iron-torn balconies
and  rest on decaying brick laced with glass,
at once observing the stinging of life
as people boil through the streets below 
with beads and  bottles, eye-crazed, eye-fallow.
Horsemen  slowly sweep them into the night

and they all slip under the blue-blackened,
star-scattered ledges and eves of heaven.

April, 1998

Sam Wilson's Questions:

Does the last couplet carry enough resonance and weight to sustain the rest of the poem, or does it fall short?

Correspond with Sam Wilson at
with your ideas about this poem.

The Albany Poetry Workshop