“The Romance of the Night Sky” is not a recollection of a particular incident. My poems tend to borrow from parts of various experiences over the years. It saves embarrassment that way. So this is more of a fantasized version of how uncomfortable I feel in crowds in general and parties in particular. And parties where if the talk was any smaller you could brush it off your lapel like dandruff are the very worst kind. I am not at my best when I’m talking to six people at once. And I also have a soft spot for those movies where our hero, uncomfortable with the usual snobs and toadies who attend such functions, steps away from the throng out onto the terrace to commune with the moon and stars. And, of course, the heroine does likewise. Naturally, the glass is the hand is de rigueur. As for the night sky, it just about writes itself.
In my world, it gets no better than solitude. Unless, of course, the right woman happens to come along with an inviting solitude of her own. So the result is more of a romantic poem than my usual morose concoction of words and, besides which, magnetosphere is a wonderful word to end on.