Untitled

Time's never enough.
Millenial fever running high,
Tortured highways passing us by.
Could i turn our story into a fairytale?
Would it sell, do you think,
To the vegan New Age crowd?
Or is theirs an age
Turned blase for sentiment?
Perhaps i could call it Women's Fiction.
Then the New Age Women's Libbers
Would fence me in with pickets.
I would've cared, i suppose,
Wish-i-knew-when.

You've spoiled me for haste,
But my broken carousel life
Is twisting out of control
Under a sky grown too small to hold me.