All photographs are by Russell Bittner

J u n e

If lights, at last, go dim in June
on May’s swift kick of luck,
will spry July plea out some goon
to plunder August’s pluck?

While crawling through my attic hall,
I sense an end impending
as creditors, in panicked call,
assail my overspending

on one young love whose brazen breach
of trust turned out the light
just as the sea waved off the beach
and bade us both goodnight—

which left me free to contemplate
how rashly I could purge
those random memories that prate
once hope abandons urge.

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