10, 11, All Good Girls Go to Heaven

If she had been good
at taking advice
she would have listened to me.

But she lacked that skill,
and a few others.
He would count them
one-by-one
until she started pouring
pills faster than liquor.

Only her pharmacist knows
how much she loved him
by the number of pills
he counted two-by-two
into a bottle labeled
with his urgent warnings.

She is now an expert
of out-of-body experiences,
taking her away
where abused women live,
black veils covering
one-and-all,
a side effect of love.

Sticky Business

Post it notes scribbled with necessities
cluttered his desktop
and spilled over to his fridge
until he was connected
by minute threads of paper fiber
pressing their collected
importance into the back of his neck
where his repeated rubbing
could not erase.

She made the mistake
of moving THE note
off the mirror so she could apply
a tempting slather of rose red lipstick
and was admonished
with a collected list
of important reminders
of just how necessary
his paper trail was.

But then he saw
the litter of her femininity,
her trailing shoes and brushes,
her nylons and earrings,
her lingering lavender perfume,
had been carefully packed
and abruptly removed.

He posted another note
written in pen
so as not to erase:

Apologize.