The Death Of Santa Claus

The Death Of Santa Claus
by Charles Harper Webb
He’s had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don’t make house
calls to the North Pole,
he’s let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap
open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it’s 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 can’t
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 a tract house
in Houston, Texas, I’m 8,
telling my mom that stupid
kids at school say Santa’s a big
fake, and she sits with me
on our purple-flowered couch,
and takes my hand, tears
in her throat, the terrible
news rising in her eyes.

0 thoughts on “The Death Of Santa Claus

  1. Good riddance of gratitude you scape goat of gift exchange. Through you I blame the whole history of giving. It sinks like a fishing weight in the minds of true believers attached to the guilt line tugged by having gotten. The bobber of gracious acceptance tells me the hooks have set. I will reel in record good will and devotion with a catch and release policy, as has been done to me, thanks to you. Merry flippin’ Xmas Santa. Thanks for another year.

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