High noon and ninety-nine in Santa Claus,
Indiana. Before I start to melt, I spot
some sorry bastard sweating off his balls
in costume. Ho-ho-ho-ly shit, it’s hot!
I whisper when the kids can’t hear—he’s not
amused. I take the rickety applause
of wooden roller coasters that slingshot
my pain-in-the-ass nephews through bendy straws
of rotten lumber. I gorge on Dippin’ Dots
and look for you in crowds even now because
that’s what I do. Dusk. Santa blows a snot
rocket in the shrubs, abandons his post.
I’ve totally gotten over you almost.