For Fred

We miss you, Mr. Rodgers.

You told us straight.

You were not purple Mr. Rodgers,

not an extinct species

that sang about the sun,

ripping off the melody from

"This Old Man, he played one"

pretending you loved us.

Mr. Rodgers, you had boundaries.

We flew over your town

and into your living room

where you magically transformed

from a man in a suit and tie

to a man in a sweater, gym shoes

and a tie.

We watched in awe

as you fastened your laces.

You played us Jazz.

You fed the fish.

You baked us pasta.

You once were a pilot

and dropped bombs

on foreign countries.

We forgive you, Mr. Rodgers.

Come back, speedy delivery.

You never had a television

in your stomach, never an antenna

jutting from your slicked back

50's hairdo that went from pepper

to salt and pepper, and then just plain

salt.

You taught us the joy

of public broadcasting.

Can you say "broadcasting"?

Yes, yes I can.

Mr. Rodgers, you were friends

with inanimate objects.

The mouths of your puppets

did not move. You performed

all the voices. Henrietta Pussycat

meow mya mya meow-meow.

We followed your ringing trolley

down a dark and foreboding tunnel

in your window seat,

knowing we would arrive

at a blue and white castle.

You never scared us, Mr. Rodgers.

You taught us gently about death,

divorce, and handicapped

saxophonists. You spoke slowly

so we would understand. You told us

we were special.

Mr. Rodgers,

you talked us down from the ledge.