Maybe you would not call her fat

just big. Maybe. But Callista bears

her bulk as though she were Atlas.


Powerful legs stride out, body lurches

to keep up. Rounded shoulders skulk

tense under giraffe-neck that glides

forward and back, propelling her along.


Mouse-brown hair – long and limp –

lacks wherewithal to do more than sit

sulking on her peanut-head so

she binds it with ivory ribbon.


Callista peers at the world

from beneath a draped fringe

in a way that was almost becoming

on a fragile young Lady Diana

but not at all on a big-boned

weak-chinned middle-aged woman

clinging to the remnants of youthful plainness.


Today is an important day

so Callista wears her trouser suit

dolphin-grey with a white pin stripe  smart

teamed with her best blouse

shell-pink silk  classy.

Underneath she wears her lucky pants

Winnie-the-Pooh  cute.


She moves through the city streets,

her arrival pronounced by the tactless

heels of plastic snake-skin ankle boots.


God help me whispers Callista

as she knocks.  Her right hand dips

deep in her pocket.  She lightly strokes

little-bear with her index finger.

Then Callista enters, to discover her fate.





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