Where are they?

The firecrackers, the dangers
to themselves,
awake ‘til dawn, with the carpet beneath them
like sand in the sun.

We look to them for inspiration
feeling uninspired,
blue.

The silver women are
sacraments of holy outrages
against the golden stars, our rivals for the Night’s affections.
Eternal.

We were built to last, and last we have,
battered like our luggage
no worse for wear
but worse, unquestionably worse.
If we exist in a tradition
it is a lineage of second-landers and explorers
that history forgot.
Here after the fact and under the gun,
behind on the bills,
past due library books our only ties to the state.

We are the ones we have been looking for,
perhaps,
unfortunately.
And we have been here all along.

But where are we?