Where nuts & fruits throw themselves to gruesome deaths

Upon samurai paring knives

(Little swords of choppy clops)

I watch carefully for non-existent patterns

That sputter & fizzle like bangers & mash on Easter Sunday

My mom makes sure you don’t forget

She made Colcannon, a traditional Irish dish.

She gave on plastic grass

in lopsided plastic baskets

Reused, named,

Equitably packed

deaf chocolate rabbits that couldn’t poop

Malted milk eggs and waxy sixlets or coins

And a custom gift like Sweet Honesty

in an Avon silver-toned deer

Or the envied Matchbox cars or Hot Wheels

With real opening doors

that tossed imaginary victims

to gruesome imaginary deaths