Capote’s Pride

You were short
and scarved, just like a woman living in
a large apartment, west
of Central Park. The cover for
my Penguin Classics copy of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
depicted you in your armchair,
a shawl around your legs,
a portrait painting of a maiden aunt.

Quite apart from being odd
you were a genius.
Your gift with words
would have made you
a star in ivy’s firmament,
a league with men and women who
supplied the world’s canon,
had you lived a hundred years prior
and therefore never graced
a TV studio.

The queen of ‘70s talk shows,
the bitch of Brooklyn Heights,
the queer who rose
above and out of sight,

a bird from out its cage.

You were so
uniquely what you were,
effete, a butterfly,
a dandy with the keenest eye
for cloth and cocktails.

What deep reserves of pain
lay underneath frivolity
are now discussed, and thought about
with more than a dismissive glance.
You showed the truth behind the dance,
the thought behind what others mocked,
the heart inside the storefront dim and locked.

Quite apart from books,
I remember you
because you were so strange,
and human in your self-deceit.
You lied, manipulated, and
lost your place among your friends,
whose secrets crammed between bookends
were sold for one more drink, or line.

You spoke of Answered Prayers,
and how they shouldn’t be answered.
But you answered more than you knew,
and comfortingly, too.