The cruelest stroke is
lying to them about the Easter Bunny.
The way their squirrel eyes
dance with nervous delight as they sit on their
haunches and stare past the croquet stakes
at the gap in the hedge,
squirrel hands outstretched for promised treats,
squirrel tongues lashing in wordless supplication,
squirrel souls desiring the appearance,
bodies levitating with the effort, tails brushing the grass,
ears heedless of the swooping arc
of the croquet mallet.