The Death of Santa Claus

Charles Webb

The Death of Santa Claus

He's had the chest pain for weeks,

But doctors dont make house

Calls to the North Pole,


He's let is Blue Cross lapse,

Blood texts makes him faint,

hospital gowns always flap


open, waiting rooms upset

his stomach, and its only

indigestion anyway, he thinks,


until, feeding the reindeer,

he feels as if a monster fist

has grabbed his heart and won't


stop squeezing. He cant

breathe, and the beautiful white

world he loves goes black,


and he drops on his jelly belly

in the snow and Mrs. Claus

tears out of the toy factory


wailing, and the elves wring

their little hands, and Rudolph's

nose blinks like a sad ambulance


light, and in the tract house

in Houston, Texas, I'm 8,

telling my mom that stupid,


kids at school say Santas a big

fake, and she sits with me on

our purple flowered couch,


and takes my hand, tears

in her throat, the terrible

new rising in her eyes.

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