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.
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?