Mr. Bojangles

Bojangles so much burdens me 
With his memory 
That I am often caught, mid syllable, 
As he stitches back the grey fields of my brain—
Hems my seldom freedom 
With the snipping clip and canter 
Of his heels 
And toe-down spin that pins me to his pain. 

            “I read in the Daily Herald 
            That some negras east of here 
            Went wild and killed …” 

The impossibly mad and running rhythms of your soul
Were all you needed then. 
How many butlers had you played? 
How many times the fool? 
How many county fairs 
The accolade of time must count you for? 

Beneath the door 
I see your shadow skipping, skipping, skipping 
Along the light 
And wonder that those years pursuing 
Brought you little further on or more 
Than they pursued against the night.

But we are free men now, then, old man. 
Our names are James, and George, and Mister, 
Who see you from a wall bestride the years 
As you flicker . . . 
   As you flicker . . . 
      As you flicker . . . 
                        * * * 
Shirley Temple has grown from plump to fat, 
And old Bo jangles, 
Sole worn through behind the tap, 
From black to Black.