He makes the great migration
north to Cardboard Valley, Detroit,
dry-walled, square-boxed
project houses,
his daddy on the line at Dodge.
Little Willie John discovers
he can sing the telephone book
with attitude, if he has to,
or “Fever” on a million copies,
a tenor with big dreams,

dreams that pole up the crazy river
between church and nightclub
in a light pirogue.
A man so fine, so fine,
women who have forgotten
now remember
what’s between their thighs,
tell their main men lies,
hot and giddy.

One night, a quick wrist flick
at a low-rent bar, willy-nilly.
He’s caught with the knife,
manslaughter. Steel bars hang
over many a man’s hangover.
Behind Walla Walla’s penitentiary
walls—even Aretha comes
to cheer him—he’s epileptic,
not penitent, says he can’t remember
killing, has no regrets
for the life he chose.
Or a segregated America
chose for him.

“No regrets,” he sings again,
smooth, like he means it,
the dead-and-gone-thing staying
away while he’s singing.