Train Station, Cape Town

Just after a blanket of clouds
creeps its way over Table Mountain
I hear the kaffir kid’s knife click open,
echoing in the Sunday evening stairwell.

Before I can blink, your hand is at his neck,
jugular between your angry fingers.

The blade flashes.

I remember the coloured woman
two weeks ago over lunch,
“This was a beautiful city
during apartheid.”

She is wrong.

I try to find beauty
in his hazy, violent eyes.
I try to find beauty
in this fear.