Migration to New York | Mikaela G.
their eyes coated with anticipation.
Others walk by, New Yorkers they are called.
They ignore me, but I notice them.
I am tired, but the day isn’t done.
I have to forget all the eyes,
I have to let my body take over me,
And I have to move to the beat of New York.
As I move, I feel a connection to my friends.
I can hear my fellow trumpet player,
from the corner of Times Square.
Oohs and aahs follow after the artist
creates a masterpiece of New York.
and as the curves come together,
a grin peaks out,
as they see their face so exaggerated
and their faces fill with glee as they take a photo
I come to a stop
Clap. Woot. Whistle.
Sweat glistens on my skin,
my breathing unnatural.
I am a street performer