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
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.