All photographs are by Russell Bittner

D e c e m b e r

Nothing born in late November
—in the last gasp of the year—
feels so fragile in December
as this smile-begetting tear.

Harvest moons may make me wonder
why my once-too-livid Lear
railed like storms that plundered thunder,
filibustering my fear—

fear of what none would remember:
quips that diced up one’s career
with the cut of a dissembler
deigning interest in his bier.

What now bodes for next November
if not Styx and one Bronx cheer?
Only Charon in December,
striking out—and steering clear.