Here's one about throwing over a business.
It's called "Not to Choose."
"I should be someplace else, but pace around
in the sweat of inhumane and diva
and its trash- goods, deeds, credits, deaths.
Have it your own way life.
I am just here to die, but I would rather
live it out as a fool and have a short life
and contempt and idle graces.
But instead, the office telephone
goes off and voices out of its fourth night
command me, "choose, choose" while women's angels voices
call the cities on their numbers.
Then when I do choose, I run away, the shop door opens
and a cop or statue stands there in the way.
What does he want?
Blood.
Or let me tumble in the rod bolts and chambers of a police
lock slot so I can get to sleep again warm in the guaranteed
steel.
Instead, I have to shake him off with promises to pay cash.
How cold action is, I should do spiritual exercises
toward the body of this world and get in shape for choices.
But instead, I leave that dirty business by the back window
climbed down the fire escape and sneak off
out of town alive with a petty cash and bad nerves
and I'm old forward with a broken muffler.
So here I am again July, vacationing in your country
broke in debt, not bankrupt yet and free to get your message.
What is it?
To begin again in another state."