Subway peasants perch in the buskers' echoes,
thrusting dried bouquets of bruised purples at my hands
like a nervous beau on the stoop.
Above ground, Easter hams carve the air,
beckoning locals inside
leaving springs streets open so
my unobstructed shadow can point the way
to the secular table of friends.
As our cardinal wine circles the table,
its perspiration dyes our eggshell table jubilant.
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