Commuter

Mismake morning colors (asylum orange, genocide yellow). An old Mexican stands, mishandling tics and gestures, a greased paper bag.

Morning’s motion uncertain, over uneven lines with wagging brown lashes, a bad
case of rosacea, an ankle length skirt. Bodies in motion staying

in motion. Window pane plain mascara, reflected in fissures the arch timbre of
crooked finger on glass—you have no more music.

Greasy ball cap tilted tufts traced with grey, aping Burroughs, a fractured tale about
Meth head neighbors, a border apartment, 200 dollars stolen, Bowie knife in the

gut. Sing canary: thinly rolled loosie tucked behind cabbaged ear. Robert’s all smiles,
yellow tee screams “I CAN’T ALWAYS BE GOOD,” shaking everyone’s hand, asking

the same question twice. Stop no stop high stop low stop. The train’s going slow
back through the dark shadows of the known world.

Martin Woodside grew up in Brooklyn, New York, but later defected to sunny California, where he’s spent the last decade writing and teaching. Martin earned an MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State and continues to serve an Associate Editor for Poetry International. He writes fiction and poetry, works as a freelance music journalist, and had published five children’s books. Martin’s work has appeared in a number of literary journals including Limestone, Poetry Motel, Thought, Guernica, Pacific Review, The Connecticut River Review, The Hazmat Review, and The Cimarron Review. His poetry chapbook, Stationary Landscapes, came out in 2009 from Pudding House Press.