Fine Tuning

Circa 2005: I assigned a name acrostic poem exercise in a creative writing class I was teaching and had fun creating one of my own.

Just don’t call me Dee Dee— or beware the

Anger buried beneath layers of lace and laughter

Nearly purple but not too blue, my rainbow, an

Inch or two too short, heavy with candles,

Cosmetics, compound sentences, Coca-Cola with crushed ice and a straw

Easily too much chocolate, but never enough when

Cats escape and turn into tigers, questions escape and turn into

Avalanches. The answer, I discovered, decked out in

Renaissance-style Stevie-esque handkerchief hems and high-heeled boots:  

Everyone suffers—even Eric, my

Love, whose Tibetan singing bowl I covet. Some days he finds me

Lingering in the aisles in Barnes and Noble,

Ogling books instead of grading, imagining possibilities.