Two children of Jewish immigrants. A factory worker’s daughter.
A preacher’s kid. A D-Day vet. A boy from the internment camps.
They put their shirts on, walked into the studio, and explored the galaxy together.
The Captain of their crew
Had directed bombing missions in the Pacific theatre, in a Flying Fortress.
Had been a cop. Believed in a better world.
So they put on their shirts, the ship’s insignia on their left breast,
And blasted off, to new planets
Of balsa wood and polystyrene. And the world marvelled.
Not at the aliens, with their foam heads and babbling tongues –
We’ve known aliens since the caves. We have always looked out at the rocks
And seen something fearsome ambling along.
No, we marvelled at the humanity.
Oh, the humanity.
All the people, in a room together – in space – and they find a way
To get along.
All the people, in a room together – in space – arguing and joking,
Compassionate and logical, finding strange new worlds
Of human potential. On the move, and in peace.
A humanity so civilized
It didn’t ride in on another’s backs.
And one of them had pointy ears. And served well. And carried a blessing.
And even the Klingons
Have a past, even the Klingons
Have possibility.

Then the working day ended and the actors
Took off their shirts, with the insignia on their left breast.
Walked out of the studio.
But their old home was not there. The world had moved.