Dear Santa

Mack played Santa year-round
at that mall with five stores.
He had a regular cough
that suffocated the shitty jingles
and the shitty wishes, and I was
only there to drive him home
(or crazy) after dark (after a drink or two).

I wasn’t gay or anything – blowing a guy
is the straightest thing you can do
as long as you remember the
“no homo” right after.

My throat burned, and I wondered
if I’d caught it. Santa was still snoring.
Had his cheekbones always been so sharp?
His suit grew baggier by the day.
Magic suit for the magic man.

Mack’s happily-ever-after was
choking on his vomit.
I skipped the funeral,
got shit-faced,
tried on his beard –
Christ did it need a wash –
and could hardly tell the difference.

Turns out they didn’t want to
revive summertime Santa.
I went home,
ditched the goddamn suit on the way,
and ached for what I used to be.

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