From the Howard Hughes poems
By Christopher Barnes, UK
Heâ€™d lurked out of focus,
Leaves no trace. A dwindle to vanishing point
Then vague air.
They had been his Gulag tower
For a repeating of tucked-away years.
He bolts from the subpoena like nitro-glycerine,
Whispers in backstreet shadows,
The reeking tang of trash heaps, a scratchy shack
In Arizona, steering his commissions on the move,
Long distance from a grubby callbox,
And in white tiled johns for trickery.
Lensmen want him,
To prang his pictures (Time Magazine,
Newsweek, The Saturday Evening Post)
Reporters bated with lubberly stipend,
Law requests that he answers points,
Brokers need confession, counter-espionage,
And his puppetry flunkies
Unhappy in their mode.
Handsets shout electric reports
Sightings in treble figures,
In all the blanks across the States
The streak of Howard Hughes.