Years ago I wrote a short poem that ended, “a fabulous shade of puce.” I can’t find the poem, but it began, “I love it when life works” some unrequited reminiscing over a particular Canadian ballet dancer. Puce, 1787, from Fr. puce “flea,” It is the color of a flea. Perhaps more so the color of a smashed flea. I love the names of colors. Farrow & Ball named theirs, Passage Puce, after a David Hicks done staircase at Barons Court. Above, a short movie by Kenneth Anger, Puce Moment (1949).
I don’t know whether to be more impressed that you’re quoting your own poetry or that you wrote a poem that had the word “puce” in it. Either way, you get a standing ovation from this side of the room.