The Return of Lieutenant James Reese Europe

By Rita Dove, Former U.S. Poet Lauerate, 2004

Victory Parade, New York City, February 1919

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. The 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!