Barbara J. Hamby

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Cape Town Banquet

At the long banquet table
in the deluxe hotel in Cape Town,
forks filled half a foot of space left
of each plate.  Small utensils
placed horizontally formed
a right angle to the forks.  To
the right, a knife or two and spoons
rested on the elegant cloth. 
Sparkling glasses stood in wait.

Fabulous food, six or seven
courses, was served by uniformed
women.  Oddly, I can’t remember
their race.  Waiters hovered to fill
water or wine glasses each time
we sipped.  They stood stoically,
unaffected by the behavior
of American women writers
reacting to this strange place. 
This sumptuous supper ended
a day of strange experiences.

Unable to eat such a huge
quantity, I picked at my plate
listened drowsily to voices
around me, but thought of the shacks
huddled along highways just outside
the city.  What were their tenants
eating tonight?  Would lightning strike
a flimsy shelter, driving rain pelt
tin roofs, sneak inside through cracks?