In Erie, in the Greyhound terminal,
in early autumn, they are playing your
song, father. Easy, by the Commodores.
in the bus stations in the cities all
across the country, people, searching for
lost fragments of themselves, aren’t turning up
a damn thing. I do not feel lucky. But
I am not at all sorry to be yours—
the lyric of the one-night stand, the one
night that you sang “…because I’m easy…†that
one nameless night, that brief encounter, those
sad notes, that bass guitar vibrato on
the radio in the bus station. I’ve
stopped wondering how this song sounds in your voice.
I’ve turned to mirrors, searching for the piece
of me that’s you. That’s what I want to find.
