Thank You, Captain

Thank you, Captain, you made it so.
You made the future look like somewhere we could go.
I never met you; still, it hurts to let you go.
Thank you, Captain. More than you could ever know.

I was a little kid, sitting too close to the TV,
you’d speak, I’d lean a little nearer like you could see me.
I didn’t get each speech; I’d catch the pieces I could keep,
then space would seem a place for people I might get to meet.
You were bald when I was small; I thought that made you ancient,
then I got older, watched you closer, started seeing patience.
The way you’d wait, let someone finish, hear what they’d been saying,
then straighten up that uniform and say it without shaking.
You’d sit and hear the kids who didn’t fit, right from that chair,
the scared kids, the weird kids, the ones who got the stares.
A king, a sheep, I’d hear you speak and know you anywhere.
Then we stayed home; you read alone. I liked that you were there.
You spoke, we’d sit at home, a sonnet in that steady tone.
I know you couldn’t know us, all those people on our own.
I wish I’d told you while you still were here to hear me, though.
I kept it in, I bit my lip. Now all I’ve got for you is

Thank you, Captain, you made it so.
You made the future look like somewhere we could go.
I never met you; still, it hurts to let you go.
Thank you, Captain. More than you could ever know.

I still hear you.
I still hear you.

I read it, then reread it; still couldn’t get past what it said.
I kept expecting some correction, some mistake in how I’d red it.
You’d been so old for so damn long, I’d never pictured you dead.
I had the facts; they had a head start. My heart hadn’t caught them yet.
I never shook your hand; you never knew me. That part still hits hard.
A part you played could stay with me; I didn’t know you off the clock.
But half the things I’d ask before I’d judge came straight from Picard,
you’d start by asking, let them talk, instead of tearing them apart.
My whole world changed around me; “Tea, Earl Grey, hot” always stayed the same.
Same phrase, same face, that little pause; I knew the words before you’d say them.
You’d pull that jacket straight; I’d settle back and watch you take us into space.
I play the scene, you say “Engage”; I wait for it to feel the same.
That room, those four lights; I’d watch you fight, convinced you couldn’t break inside,
then back aboard, you said you’d almost cracked; you’d started seeing five.
I missed that bit when I was little; I just heard the louder line,
now it’s the quiet part that sticks, the one you didn’t have to hide.
So when I’m quick to pick a side, impatient with somebody different,
I’ll sit a minute, bite it back, and give that person time to finish.
I watched you sit with frightened kids; you didn’t have to fix their difference.
I’ll think of that before I cut somebody off in the next sentence.
The kid beside the TV’s still convinced you’ll be back in a minute.
I know you won’t. I know those words. I wish that knowing made a difference.
I miss the way you’d say a line; I grin, then wince when I replay it,
I never got to meet you. I can barely sing it, but I mean it:

Thank you, Captain, you made it so.
You made the future look like somewhere we could go.
I never met you; still, it hurts to let you go.
Thank you, Captain. More than you could ever know.

I still hear you.
I still hear you.