Poem: "Ex-boyfriends in Heaven" by Gwen Hart from Lost and Found. © David Robert Books. Reprinted with permission. Ex-boyfriends in Heaven Ex-boyfriends never go to hell, no matter how many times you suggest it. No, they ascend straight to heaven, where they speak French, wear matching socks, and always, always arrive on time, with a full tank of gas and a bottle of wine. They never curse your cat or your mother, never call you up drunk doing Arnold Schwarzenegger impressions, never say Hey Rita if your name is Tammy, never say Hey Tammy if your name is Joan. They're better trained than dogs and they smell better, too, better than Twinkies or camellias, better than anything on earth. Once in a while, they take a holiday, drive their Porsches down through the clouds in one long line and ring the doorbell in your dreams, offering tender apologies, tender chicken cutlets, tender love. But before you take one sack of groceries, before your lips graze a clean-shaven jaw, before you let one polished Oxford loafer through your door, remember that as soon as they cross the threshold, the truth will slip in behind them: ex-boyfriends only exist this way in heaven, or whatever you want to call it, their new lives without you.