A black cloud looms over the city.
It isn't a storm front.
It isn't pollution.
It isn't terrorism.
Well, maybe it's a little of
each of those things --
The exhaust of a generation
driving its distress in circles,
burning out to the sky.
They protest democracy by staying home
on election day.
They resist capitalism by
They spurn the corporation
through puffs of Marlboro cigarettes.
They turn the fuel of their plight
into so much poison.
The closest they've come to war
is waiting in line for their favorite band.
The closest they've come to peace
is shoplifting the album.
Fortunately, they aren't a threat.
They're just in a fog --
the product of the generation
that cleared the sky for rain.