I used to look for stars, sifting through clouds and smog
for playful light. Now I walk, eyes nailed forward.
My shadow jumps when another brushes by.
No one can explain the butchered frames
and spinning spokes. Blood running down
a stricken face, tasteless paint. Thin yellow tape
cordons the exhibit. A poster waves frantically,
snatching passing sleeves. Stubbed, rushed,
overcooked brush pity to the side. Quarters go
to metrocards, not empty tins on sidewalks.
Tired eyes fail to notice bloodshot ones. Sirens
in the morning are premature alarms. The channel
changes from protests to colorful cartoons.
Screams downtown are drowned by music in the room.
By Haemaru Chung
A writer, violinist, photographer and athlete, Haemaru is currently a junior at a high school in New York City. His stories and poems have been recognized by the National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Gannon University National High School Poetry Contest, Rider University Annual High School Writing Contest, Jack London Foundation Fiction Writing Contest, William Faulkner Wisdom Creative Writing Competition, among others. Other works have been published in many literary magazines, including The Round, Louisville Review, The Interlochen Review and The Apprentice Writer .