After his trial, Socrates is condemned to death
for sins of impiety and corrupting the youth.
Most depictions show him as noble and calm
in this final adversity, befitting a philosopher
of his stature—In the Phaedo, when he inquires,
the official poisoner says the only thing he's
expected to do is drink it, that's all. Carrot
fern, poison parsley, purple-blotched
along the stem and bitter when bruised—
Even as Socrates gamely downs
the hemlock-saturated cup of wine,
he doesn't froth at the mouth, clutch
at his stomach, or stumble around
like a common drunk. He simply pulls
his robe over his face. This is the guy
famous for asking What do you know?
How do you know what you know? and
Why should you care about it? Unsettling,
to anyone uncomfortable with challenging
the status quo or what they've been
conditioned to believe. And so, at the café
this morning, when the barista instructs
us to keep anyone from sitting at the corner
table because a repairman's coming to fix
the closed circuit camera above it,
we are at first amused as customer
after customer tries to sit there,
even when we've turned the chairs
over or pushed them under the window
counter. All they have to do is comply, find
another table; that's all. Aren't they also
asking How do you know? Why should we
believe you? And it seems there is also
something in the spirit that makes me want
to cheer, for refusing to accept there can be
only one outcome, besides or before
the body's surrender to its most final fate.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
