I picnic with my girlfriend's family, plus
Socrates. He brings Pandora fruit: a ball
with citrus, berry, mango lobes. We discuss
lies. Socrates admits "My life has all
been one long lie." Under his Greek wit he
exudes such sad. I understand:
for years the Phantom Theater stalked me
nightly--four stages surround
the Orchestra Pit. Black hole
yawns agape. Aches to make
me too mask in dark, in role,
to hide, to die; the old Socratic lie.
But over the years, it lost my scent.
Got a career, a marriage, went
middle-aged, unhounded. When
my daughter grew to birdlike ten
and loved to sing and act like me,
I told her for the first time then
of my lifelong nemesis--
the scuttling stage in my dream-abyss.
She laughs. Says "Mom, it chases me too!"
Appalled, I ask "The Pit stalks you?"
"Nah, my Stages have no Pit;
I'm not scared at all."
I wake relieved. Her stalker evolved
milder than mine. And that is all
I understand of evolution's crawl.
Out of the Pit
Out of the Pit we
Out of the Pit we crawl.
