The Easter Bunny has seen some shit.
Their bones are brittle, like those of a greyhound.
A violent insomniac (hazard of the job)
They lay awake at night 364 nights a year,
Thinking about the putrid pastel plastic egg corpses
Swirling onto the plastic island in the Pacific Ocean.
They worry about the reach of Big Sugar’s sticky fingers,
Reflect on the suicide rates of dentists,
Yet have their reservations about parents
Putting coins instead of candy
On the insides of eggs.
They are absolutely opposed
To those who hide actual eggs.
THERE’S ALWAYS ONE YOU CAN NEVER FIND.
Tonight, they’ll drink vodka and share
War stories with Mr. and Mrs. Claus,
The Tooth Fairy and the other assortment
Of immortal beings who slowly disintegrate
In the imaginations of children.
They disappear earlier and earlier every year.
The Easter Bunny has seen some shit.
