All photographs are by Russell Bittner
A p r i l
It’s April again, with its wretched refrain
of the taxman, who cometh a-calling.
Am I then to blame if I shudder in shame
at his short-list to which we keep falling?
I don’t doubt he’s right—after all, there’s tonight
when with you I’d much rather be balling;
since like Mother Earth, we’ve some sense of the worth
of what he and his own wife find galling.
And so, we restrain our critique of the rain
as the reason we’re both now recalling
that May days and flowers are grateful for showers
that taxmen regard as appalling.
But try as he might to indict us tonight
for sedition, perdition and stalling,
we both know this human just lacks the acumen
to amortize amorous mauling.