Sitting in a cloud of fornicating insects,
It is a trial to be alone.
Granted, when each male
Is as a black grain of rice, one
End daubbed red, and the female
Is much the same, but on a grander
Scale, and each one of ten thousand
Wants to fuck, affairs of the heart
Are somewhat simpler. These brief,
Devoted lives drift past
In impossible rut, in every variation
That two joined abdomens, four wings
And twelve legs will allow,
For variety sporting on my chair,
Or my shoulder, or in my potato salad,
Mingling their shared lust with ranch dressing,
Before joining the uncounted lovers in the air.
Landing in the pork and beans must spoil the mood,
As would the crushing weight of a potato, some salad,
Most of a sausage, and my dinner plate.
I do not bear them particular ill will,
These endless, teeming exhibitionists,
But their heedless display is a harsh reminder
Of the inconvenience of human love,
Of the difficulty of mating at a lawn party,
Of rolling in careless caress through the peach cobbler,
And drifting, unhinged from gravity,
Across the buzzing lake.