Marvin

Marvin was the kind of guy

who could easily die in his cubicle

without anyone noticing for a few days

until maybe the odor of the Former Marvin

would cause Traci, the office manager, to investigate.

And even then, when she would scream in horror

upon finding his stiff corpse at his desk,

she would think, “Oh, what was his name again?

Mike?  Marty?  Something with an M, I think.”

For that reason, no one noticed

when Marvin didn’t show up.

He had had every intention to go to work

as he had done every day

for the past 15 years.

He got stuck at that red light,

the one that takes absolutely forever

about half a mile from the office.

Then he thought,

“I’ve never seen the desert.”

He made a U-turn,

got back on the expressway,

and drove west, away from the

disapproving silver skyscrapers

in his rearview mirror.

He mussed up his hair

and loosened his tie,

ignored the pings of email notifications

and mundane texts from his wife.

He turned up the radio

and rolled down his window.