Captain

When they first introduced me to the captain,
They told me he was dying.
They said it in such a matter of fact tone,
That I took it to be Truth.
And the captain, lying there,
his frail frame draped under a dingy, white sheet
made no effort to object to the bleakness
of this prognosis.
He didn’t blame us.

He has AIDS they said
He will not make it another month.
He hardly moved his head to say hello
And he never reached out his hand to shake mine

A gesture I would become so accustom to over the next two years
That I’d come to expect a hand shake to say hello
A handshake to agree mid-conversation
A handshake to say good-bye
I’d even begin awkwardly reaching out to shake hands
Of touch-less Americans as I headed out the front door.

But he never shook my hand during our first meeting.
I remember clearly now, how he lay there, unmoving,
His body too weak to bear the weight of his own arm.

And I remember watching those same arms
lifting boat motors and anchors out of the water
over the sides of a wooden sailboat
in a single- sided tug-of-war.

And as the waves slipped past us
And the sail swelled over us
they leaned and whispered
“He’s not strong enough.
He shouldn’t be captain, you know.”

And when I saw him walk slowly
Across the grass, his shoulders slightly hunched
Hat on, chin up, I always made sure to say
“Bonswa Captain.”
Good afternoon, Captain.

And three years later I saw,
in the background of a friend’s photo,
the same proud look on his face
the same now strong arm on the motor
sailing his boat full of strangers
who have no idea how honored
they should feel to have such a
strong Captain.