A room full of Truman Capotes

Holding forth, in a cheap hotel somewhere in Texas,

Truman Capote confronts himself.

Large Afghans lounge around the room.

You are in the room unaddressed, but welcome.

Eyes are not on you.

You hear someone whisper, ‘he belongs here. ‘

You confront yourself in a thousand different skins.

You thought to yourself “honesty doesn’t always lead to the truth”.

Your new friends pretend they don’t agree.

Their flesh knows, nothing is ever that simple.

Now you are offended .

None of this is my fault, you protest.

Sorry. I have to look at the big picture

I’m a big picture kind of guy.

The future isn’t rosy.

It is dangerous.

You love that it is dangerous.

You learned long ago about whoopee cushions

and fake blood.

You’re no-one’s fool.

Try pretending to own something you don’t understand.

Exactly. The Afghan has that effect.

Who exactly is the pet anyways.

I keep asking myself this.

Then, miraculously, one of the Trumans stands up to speak.

He wears a beautiful evening jacket

The price tag is still hanging from the sleeve.

It is worth more than all the stars in heaven.

I am careful to remind everyone in the room I am just a guest.

They’re not buying it.

I am not ready for any of this.

Still, I am wary of myself.

In the next hotel room there is a room

full of Liberaces and not a single piano.

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