How he'd leave the office,
drive aimlessly around the city,
creditors' calls still ringing in his ears.
 
How he listened to the radio for news
that the whole business world had caved in.
But the news was the same as the week before,
and the week before that.
 
How he sat at the lunch counter,
watching the waitress,
hearing her patter with the regulars.
For her,  another day.
 
How he asked each employee
to come into his office,
one by one.
 
            Packing boxes alone,
loading them into the station wagon,
waiting in the empty office
for people to buy the last
of the typewriters,
the old wooden waste baskets,
hating their questions:
What happened here?
What will you do now?
 
How he told himself
things could be worse.
How in a way he felt
free.
 
How someone said,  Remember,
Ted Williams struck out
seven hundred times at bat.
 
How it hadn't helped.
He'd turned his back now
and wouldn't be thinking of that.