Rita Dove
The Return of Lieutenant James Reese Europe
We trained in the streets: the streets where we came from.
We drilled with sticks, boys darting between bushes,, shouting—
that's all you thought we were good for. We trained anyway.
In camp we had no plates or forks. First to sail, first to join the French,
first to see combat with the shortest training time.
My, the sun is looking fine today.
We toured devastation. American good will
in a forty-four piece band. Dignitaries smiled; the wounded
settled back to dream. That old woman in St. Nazaire
who tucked up her skirts so she could "walk the dog."
German prisoners tapping their feet as we went by.
Miss Flatiron with your tall cool self: How do.
You didn't want us when we left but we went.
You didn't want us coming back but here we are,
stepping right up white-faced Fifth Avenue in a phalanx
(no prancing, no showing of teeth, no swank)
past the Library lions, eyes forward, tin hats aligned—
a massive, upheld human shield.
No jazz for you: We'll play a brisk French march
and show our ribbons, flash our Croix de Guerre
(yes, we learned French, too) all the way
until we reach 110th Street and yes! take our turn
onto Lenox Avenue and all those brown faces and then—
Baby, Here Comes Your Daddy Now!
Rita Dove, Collected Poems: 1974-2004, W.W. Norton, 2017.