At The Maharani Hotel Poem by Gert Strydom

It's December and in the late afternoon
the North beach is still packed
where you sit at a table
at the Maharani hotel
drinking a glass of cool drink
or maybe a Smirnoff twist
and the sun falls through your golden twirls
your beach jacket falls open
to your slender thighs
that are burnt golden brown
and your legs and breasts are displayed
in a tiny bikini.

The waiter brings you
a glass of icy-cold apple cider.
When our eyes do meet
I see how really beautiful they are
and the porter does whisper something into your ear,
gives you a note
that makes you smile radiantly,
and some of the other women
look covertly at their men
and it's strange that a lovely woman like you is alone.