Her lower jaw
(a class three, my dentist father
would have termed it)
jutted forward pugnaciously.

He hair hung limp,
pinned at the side.
Her body hunched crab-like
(probably osteoporosis) .
She wore cream blouses,
stout shoes
and a cardigan
when it was cold.

She adored Mr. Cuthbertson
(head of radio drama)
with the fierce passion
of a lonely spinster.
She fussed over his tea,
typed his memos lovingly.

Her Christian name was Aimee.
Sad really.

At her retirement party
Mr Cuthbertson pecked her on the cheek.
She blushed hotly
and happily.

Alison Cassidy

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/miss-jones/