o v e r t u r e

Once upon a time,
of a cool October evening,
I sat on a low platform in a folding chair,
singing softly and watching
carbon based parasites feed.

I supplied the primary acoustic ambience,
the psychic and sonic background rhythms
for the diners and the drinkers,
the seekers after satiety,
helpless all,
driven by sensory longings
of every kind.

They found organic fuel and fluids,
proximate same-species congress,
and occasionally the opportunity
to persuade an acceptable candidate
with matching interlocking
primary reproductive organs
of the urgent need to connect them.

Into this Saturday night
with the burgundy carpet
and the black naugahyde,
into the smoke and the shadows
and the sound of my guitar,
came the man who would
help me to see it in exactly
this delightful way,
my Adam.