Easter Morning Brunch

The pulp
was palpable
so the juice
remained
as it was poured,
half-full
in the bloom
on the stem
of the fancy
crystal glass.

But I like
the pulp,
he said,
chewing his
juice
and swallowing
with hard
little gulps.

Then you
can have mine
I told him,
averting my eyes
from the
ceremonious
chewing
of Easter
OJ.

I focus my
attention
on my own plate,
spread a dab of
smooth
wabi sabi
on an English muffin
slab,
and feel like a bad egg
for the rest of Easter.