Jeff Burt

Bubble Man

He did not drive the 1987 big green Lincoln.
Stationary, stuck in the corner of a parking lot
behind a gracing church, the Lincoln was home,
all his possessions racked in the back,
special toggle switch to bypass
the power block disabled, no blinkers,
tail lights or brake, battery mainlined
to dome light and the bright segments
of radio for baseball games heard
in twilight before he slept on the front seat
his feet stuck in the steering wheel
like ivy wound through iron grate.

Escaped to furnished housing,
he ate like a woodpecker at a bird feeder,
a hand clutching the table, his legs
like a tail up against the bottom for balance,
head dipping over like a beak,
eyes at the level of his food,
in perpetual fear of his dead mother
returning to take away his meal.