return of the cannibal

The mail brought a package from
my in-laws; apparently for Easter.
A small card read Enjoy.

Inside the package were eggs. A dozen.
They were hardboiled and had painted
on them small red fruits.

I like eggs but not so much the idea.
They now decorate the finest houses
of the neighborhood:

The Joneses’ The Millers’ The Cokers’
The backyard wedding at my brother’s
where they rained down.

I was told I am never allowed back
after the pelting between picnics
and simultaneous wakes

both of which resembled rat pack’s.
But by then I was out of eggs and
my holiness also trickled.

I left for good when the week ended,
and as I moved further away
I laughed to myself

thinking I’d have been much better
off in the majors instead of here
as the league’s #1 asshole.