Well, I want to read something else called
"The Best Show in Vegas."
The best show in Las Vegas was the old workman
by the library wall in the afternoon.
His trowel ballet, his black skin drinking the sun.
His family waiting in the shade, by a car
that had honorable scars and was faithful.
Howard Hughes has not solved it all, staff
and fortunes strangled together in air conditioning.
And no gambler's hands have built so good a wall, or church
forgiven as well as his.
Good afternoon to me, a hitchhiker learning the world
that his work held still in the heat and his welcome shared.
Past the headlines, back over the years,
I give him this Oscar.