The headlights fading out at dawn,
A stranger at the shore, the shore
Not wakening to the great sea
Out of sleep, and night, and no sun
Rising where it rose before.
The old champion in a sweat suit
Tells me this is Chicago, this—
He does not say—is not the sea
But the chopped grey lake you get to
After travelling all night
From Dubuque, Cairo, or Wyandotte.
He takes off at a slow trot
And the fat slides under his shirt.
I recall the Friday night
In a beer garden in Detroit
I saw him flatten Ezzard Charles
On TV, and weep, and raise
Both gloved hands in a slow salute
To a God. I could tell him that.
I could tell him that those good days
Were no more and no less than these.
I could tell him that I thought
By now I must have reached the sea
We read about, or that last night
I saw a man break down and cry
Out of luck and out of gas
In Bruce’s Crossing. We collect
Here at the shore, the two of us,
To make a pact, a people come
For a new world and a new home