ring the bell and wait
to see her face above him at the window
the eyes widen, the mouth an oh!
look through the keyhole
to see the joy of her
running down the stairs in a pink t-shirt
cupping each large unruly breast
not enough hands
to stop the smile on her face
Mary McCallum
I wrote this poem over twenty years ago living in London. It is a true story told to me by my best friend's boyfriend. Sandra, my friend, was and remains to this day the personification of that gorgeous thing we call 'joy'.
Looking at the poem now, I see how slight it is and I am tempted to tinker, but to do that twenty years on makes it no longer 'Pink T-Shirt' but something else. It's as if lying in a folder with other unpublished poems all this time has set the words as jelly sets - it is no longer liquid to be stirred. I'm okay with that.
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