Dear Editor,
Here’s a quick poem about the concert. I really enjoyed it, by the way.
TIFFANY
I had to go.
I simply had to see her.
I felt like I was 12 and I felt no remorse at skipping class
for one glance.
The band came out first — a cross between the Backstreet Boys
and Extreme,
the guitarist’s beanie was perfectly placed,
and the other guitarist wore sunglasses he never used —
he just squinted at the audience and grinned.
The tension built as the student body congregated —
There was a brief prayer petitioning good weather and good behavior.
And then —
Crimson vinyl to match her Koolaid hair,
Tiffany’s tight black pants marched on stage.
The crowd went wild (kind of)
and some kid with bleached hair and noodle legs
kissed the bassist, the two guitarists, the drummer,
and Tiffany.
Grudgingly she agreed to sing the song we would recognize
(I pitied her as I wondered how many times …),
but halfway through she let us know she had Grown Up and that
“If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to stop the song.”
The “single-file” line spread across the Quad, hoping for her autograph
I wonder if she has a last name.
She eventually re-emerged from her bus-fortress,
surrounded by yellow stormtroopers brandishing stubby orange
light-sabers.
Tiffany, Queen of 1987.
Mortal glory is a moment.
Fame is fickle fiction.
James Dewey
Boise, Idaho
