Barbara J. Hamby

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Cape Town Banquet

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?