Generation Next

Just like the minor fools
Who thought so many things
Were achievable,

They sit twisted on the sofa,
Patiently waiting for
Pizza and enlightenment;

They’re avoiding the news
And just waiting for signs,
Or at least sublime substitutes

For all the heartburn
And the vague regret
That something could’ve been done,

Something won,
Were it not for that
Big blinding sun.