Makeshift Magicians

We are a makeshift generation
with our hand-me-down shoes,
the girls with their smudged eyeliner,
and the boys with ragged tees and jackets
advertising their favorite magicians.

A guitar-strumming, ski-cap-wearing militia,
unsure whether philanthropy is the right path,
we still fall for each other constantly
just to feel the wind rush past as we plummet
into the arms of a starry-eyed admirer.

Guitars and spiral notebooks are our weapons,
and, in our eagerly adept hands,
we are able to influence those
who live outside city limits
through radios and see-dee players.
We are free of rules, devoid of boundaries,
forgotten by our families,
and enthralled by a magic
of which we are entirely unworthy.

I sang at the top of my lungs
in the backseat of a speeding car, my hands
reaching into cold gusts of wind,
gasping for breath
but laughing wildly because it hurt.
And the sun, that sometimes-contemptible presence,
shone onto my face,
illuminating me,
warming me,
enlightening me
to the fact that there's something else out there.