Spittle bubbling at the corners
of his mouth, sputtering in disbelief.
His money ought to buy priority,
ought to blow the bubble
he nurtures close in his chest.
The needle of his home-brought thermometer
ticks a touch too far for medium-rare and it pricks
close to the bubble because a man as rare
as he cannot fathom
his meat being so close
to medium,
to mediocrity.
Veins bulging on a shiny forehead
throb with indignation,
the anger of the righteous.
He is bursting at the seams:
buttons pop off a tailored jacket,
ricocheting off the walls
of a restaurant
his flushed skin
is expanding to fill.
He is a bubble, a pink balloon.
He is in a bubble, and by God,
he will continue until he pops,
boils over,
foams
to
nothing.
