He had that look of passionate stupor.
Forty years cocooned in Agapé lace.
She hid the truth of a diagnosed tumor.
Simple lives they led. She a pruner
and he, a holy man of modest grace.
She hid from him her diagnosed tumor.
Wishing the lump was detected sooner,
she wept inside when she saw his face,
and he had that look of befuddled stupor.
He tried to enthuse her with tender humor,
but she couldn’t smile those last few days,
shriveled from the torture of her secret tumor.
In late December she left her suitor,
placed upon the mantle within a vase.
He had that look of melancholy stupor.
He stroked the cylinder of the Ruger,
longing for the warmth of her embrace.
He had that look of despondent stupor,
wishing it was he with the diagnosed tumor.