In Response to a Rumor That the Oldest Whorehouse in Wheeling, West Virginia Has Been Condemned by James Wright

No collection of references to Wheeling in literature would be complete without the poems of James Wright, from Martins Ferry, Ohio. Wright's work is difficult for me to read. Wheeling is a city that is hard to love at times, but certain people, myself included, have a fierce loyalty to this corner of the world. I can complain about Wheeling all I want, but to hear an outsider do so hurts my pride. Although Wright is an Ohio Valley native, the truth is that he left and seldom looked back except to criticize. To see Wheeling's flaws exposed harshly to outsiders is a tough pill to swallow. Nonetheless, Wright is the Ohio Valley's most celebrated poet, and an open-minded read of his works is worthwhile. Without further ado... In Response to a Rumor That the Oldest Whorehouse in Wheeling, West Virginia Has Been Condemned I will grieve alone, As I strolled alone, years ago, down along The Ohio shore. I hid in the hobo jungle weeds Upstream from the sewer main, Pondering, gazing. I saw, down river, At Twenty-third and Water Streets By the vinegar works, The doors open in early evening. Swinging their purses, the women Poured down the long street to the river And into the river. I do not know how it was They could drown every evening. What time near dawn did they climb up the other shore, Drying their wings? For the river at Wheeling, West Virginia, Has only two shores: The one in hell, the other In Bridgeport, Ohio. And nobody would commit suicide, only To find beyond death Bridgeport, Ohio.