The Day Truman Capote Died

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The day Truman Capote died
my heart reeled from the headlines
that rivaled a non-fiction novel.
The story was: my friend
entered Head’s Tavern
to purchase a 6-pack to go
when the six foot seven ex-policeman slid his hand
between her legs to cop a feel,
hoping to poke a new notch in his belt.
When she pulled out of his clammy grip,
his cockiness shrunk.
Tempered by whiskey, and red-faced,
he picked her up as if she were a ragdoll,
hung her upside down by her ankles
and dropped her headfirst onto the floor
over and over and over again.
Gossip said she deserved the attack:
always teasing men with that smile and laughter,
and by daring to go into a tavern alone —
one once called The Stag —
a place for manly men to gather,
tip back some booze and brag
about the latest doe
they bagged in cold blood.