Club Foot

Club foot my tutor. Poor lady.
Stricken with a gimlet eye,
a birthmark like a jam smear
on the chin, and a nervous tic.
She's big, maybe gained the weight
in school, where I really doubt
she was a raging socialite.
Her big blue bulbous eyes
flick around the room, soft
voice clipping out consonants,
hunched forward, hammy arms
propped on knees, to hide
her huge awkward breasts.
A copy of Austen stuffed with
coloured slips rests on her cords.
She's a fierce intelligence, PhD,
many of her papers published,
but she never learnt smiling,
hedged her bets, chose austerity,
hid behind vocabulary,
went out and bought
some wide, plain shoes.