Poetry By Victoria Doose

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Intrusive Thoughts on a Long Drive to the Office

The cross-border journey to Maryland is unusually cold
for April, and water flicks off the steady windshield wipers.

It’s really easy to just not press the brakes.

An 18-wheeler squeals down the interstate, a sound like
dogs being dragged, rabbits in talons, unexpected heartbreak.

Remember the story you read last night about a woman
whose engine block tore through her abdomen?

When I get to the office, I am understanding about my layoff
and nod politely when the CEO says he’s sorry for this situation.

You’re only about a foot from smashing the end of that guardrail.
​
I hand over my laptop and badge and shake his hand—he is the only
person here—and let 10 years die quietly on my way out the door.

Do you think those yellow barrels of sand by the exit really work?

The drive back into Virginia is stalled by rubberneckers staring at
a convoy hauling an oversized load, all pulled over to the shoulder.

It’s easy enough to just run off the road.

​

Victoria Doose was born and raised in the watery climes of Charleston, South Carolina, and is now based in the Washington, DC, area. She received her Bachelor of Arts in English and art history from Elon University. An editor by day and a poet by night, she is immersed in the artistry and technical craft of writing at all times. Her work has been published in Colonnades and is forthcoming in The Soap Box Press’ anthology Scream it at the Back Wall.