Would I prefer a vista of Table Mountain or of Cape Town harbor
with Robben Island skulking in a sulfurous orange sunset?
Instead of the tramlines of Broad Green, Liverpool,
a rickety Green Goddess squealing on silvered steel
as I listen to you recount your lies and indiscretions?
I'm your kept black South African therapist,
your paid earpiece. You think I'm your friend
but I am not your pal, your bosom buddy. No!
We have boundaries here. Rather I'm your tethered impala,
dopey and doleful as a gnu, a golden chain encircling my neck.
Christopher T. George