He's had the chest pains for weeks, <br />but doctors don't make house <br />calls to the North Pole, <br /> <br />he's let his Blue Cross lapse, <br />blood tests make him faint, <br />hospital gown always flap <br /> <br />open, waiting rooms upset <br />his stomach, and it's only <br />indigestion anyway, he thinks, <br /> <br />until, feeding the reindeer, <br />he feels as if a monster fist <br />has grabbed his heart and won't <br /> <br />stop squeezing. He can't <br />breathe, and the beautiful white <br />world he loves goes black, <br /> <br />and he drops on his jelly belly <br />in the snow and Mrs. Claus <br />tears out of the toy factory <br /> <br />wailing, and the elves wring <br />their little hands, and Rudolph's <br />nose blinks like a sad ambulance <br /> <br />light, and in a tract house <br />in Houston, Texas, I'm 8, <br />telling my mom that stupid <br /> <br />kids at school say Santa's a big <br />fake, and she sits with me <br />on our purple-flowered couch, <br /> <br />and takes my hand, tears <br />in her throat, the terrible <br />news rising in her eyes.<br /><br />Charles Harper Webb<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-death-of-santa-claus/
