After the Chocolate Bunny’s Gone, Even the Ears

Late afternoon on Easter Sunday: Downtown’s

as lonely as my living room now that

the celebrations have all ended–the processions

long over, the dishes washed from brunch,

the lilies already beginning their wilt–and I

am cycling around deserted streets under

granite-coloured skies threatening the storms

that come up suddenly in unstable spring;

I’m delaying the necessary return to the old

routine of Sunday-evening fears, drifting

through restless dreams into Monday’s panic.

 

Copyright 2017

T. Allen Culpepper

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Plastic Egg

The icicle lights still hanging from the eaves

of my neighbor’s house the week before Easter

tell how we now move from feast to feast

without fast or feria, always in celebration,

never in mourning, repentance, or even reflection.

The fight is not easy against our adversaries,

Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, nor do they

in themselves embody evil; but exaltation

overdone fails us, leaves us empty.

We crack open the plastic egg

and find it empty.

 

Copyright 2017

T. Allen Culpepper