Smitten

by Elisabeth Smith Wood

He was smitten.
No doubt about it.
The grocer and the florist watched
his newfound jaunt and agreed.
The solitary man who sometimes hummed

maybe Coltrane, maybe not,
the one who fought to smile
or mutter hello when he bought his
morning papers was now a man with purpose.

Eventually he allowed as
how he did indeed have his eye on someone.
She shimmers, he told them.
Shimmers, they wondered.
Beyond beauty of the stars, she's
brighter than the sun. If I can hold her radiance
in my arms, I’ll be a happy man.
He kept his gaze low when he smiled as he left.

He’s humble, the grocer said.
He’s a shy man, the florist insisted each time he
bought every stargazer lily in the flower shop.
As lovely as these are, the man said,
nothing compares to her exquisite grace. When I can
hold her in my arms… he said as he strolled away.

When the smitten man came no more the
florist and the grocer agreed that true love was found
until the morning papers showed the man in his kitchen
clutching a woman’s frozen head in his arms,
surrounded by blood curdled lilies.