“Hey folks, Easy-Rider here with some cool news
about Chenango County Transit,” --this is what he said.
This born again Fonzie was doing a bus commercial.
He wore a biker-type leather jacket, littered with
Zippers; a quart of styling gel on his balding scalp;
Black jeans, rather generic; and Harley Davidson boots.
“More frequent schedules, including our new Sunday
service, to get you where you need to go, nice and easy!”

It made me sad. It wasn’t so much the irony of it all,
The fact that in Norwich, most of the passengers
Are dropped off and picked up from the County
Unemployment Office or one of many insane asylums.
I thought about this guy, this broke-ass, washed up
Easy-Rider, who once owned a souped-up Camaro;
Who had a spunky, blonde girlfriend named Jenny,
Or Trish, or maybe even Patsy; who had another girlfriend
In Syracuse (she was never allowed in the car though;
He had class, after all); I thought about where he ended up,
And what he must’ve felt, when he walked up the steps
Of that brand-new bus, and smiled at the camera-man.

Both of the girlfriends were now married or divorced;
They told the stories of their “wild times” to their friends,
As they watched the re-runs of “Happy Days” on
Nick at Nite and chain-smoked Newport Lights.
The original leather jacket, a Medium, was in the garage,-
It hasn’t fit him in ten years; he’s gotten chubby; he has.
The Camaro found its final resting place at the Tioga
County Landfill, rusting away a little more each year.
Easy-Rider, dude, fellow man, I feel for you, no shit.
If we are ever at the same stop, and you need change,
Because your transfer had expired ten minutes ago,
Just ask, don’t be ashamed; you’ve earned it after all.