Hatless, in mocking whiteface, Carl Schurz stands,
tricked by the tempest out of blackest bronze.
His basalt Negroes limp along their frieze:
Bare chested, fetters broken, they take liberties
(but not with the pronouncing of his name:
it's "Shirts," not "Skirts"). He's got his back to Harlem,
where it will snow from moonrise until morning.
Wreaths of snow will swag the tattered awning
of the variety store called Apollo Eleven,
and juke the front of Shorty's Jamaican Kitchen,
give the Lickety-Split Cocktail Lounge a cold meander,
and ghost wings to Solomon's Iron Eagle Shoe Store.