Velvet Stanchions in a Dead Mall
Let's workshop this poem about a man who, during a hope-dashed moment with a "psychic surgeon," is reminded of his childhood experience standing on queue for quality time with a mall Santa
Velvet Stanchions in a Dead Mall
Chicken liver palmed
like an uncle's unslick quarter
in your ear, the psychic surgeon—
in jaded recital of struggle
tripping Santa-lap memories—
tears a tumor from your gut
(even though, as you kept trying
to tell his smiley handlers,
the cancer is of the brain).
