The Indictment
Joe conveniently blamed his undoing on Frances.
Their hearts had hardened over a few long years,
Like the hoary overgrowth of thorn-laden shrubs
That lined the drive winding from Harrod Lane
Up to their walnut double doors, heavy, sturdy,
And proudly exhibiting their stained glass panes.
They only appeared inviting to casual observers.
Anyone who knew the two needn't be a prophet to see
The chance was high that either Frances or Joe might
Surface dead long before their time should've been due.
That cold topaz resting on her third finger, left hand,
Gave way to a gem of grander repose, highly carated,
Shining like the iridescent glint in Joe's hard eyes,
As he encircled Frances with favors, lies, and demands.
The wedding was de rigueur, the reception posh.
The decade that followed was a whirlwind of gain.
Then came Brittany, followed by Marsh...blessings -
Or the demise of all that remained plausibly sane?
Joe inhaled and injected his profits; business crashed,
As did Frances, into a crevasse below and past the last
Turn west of Morgan's Point, on a night much too dark.
Authorities suspected, unproven, more than casual mishap.
Joe blamed his late wife's lover for breaking her heart.
He claimed Frances got a call she never expected,
That sent her out the door then over that retaining wall.
He told detectives he hadn't slept with her in years.
Perhaps they split the sheets, but Joe never split hairs,
Nor profits. Frances knew too much to remain untouched.
Cold cases gather dust slowly on dim back shelves.
Her lifestyle was top-drawer, but Frances' demise
Held less glamor, less drama - more apathy and ennui.
She never stood for being ignored; she didn't lie
Still for it long either. Somehow Joe never rested
Peacefully again, even though he remained unindicted.
Between midnight and 3:00 AM, without fail, she came
To him - bloody finger outstretched, beautiful face
Abraded, marred...floating, not walking...closer...
Calling Joe, Joe, you know I'll never leave you.
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