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Lexanoia on the Roadsby Henry QuinceIt’s borderland season, wing or sprinter;billboards convie to exploit us; the slickery highway has snirt on its verges along with the rusting detroitus. The kids in the back either speak in whinese or read me a riddle’s prescription. I’m all riddled out, asphinxiated, and the tyres aren’t finding much gription. At the traffic lights I’m impatient, pregreening. I fume at the thought of that hag, the checkout woman who packed the smushables under the cans in my bag. And those medical tests: there’s a quackmire ahead of the X-rays and needles I hate. Next week I might be fatally ill; for now I’ll precuperate. But then I recall the espacular lady beside me, who heads my agenda; she is the one who daily sinspires me. Oh woot, when I see her nudenda!
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Henry Quince has been an academic, jazz pianist, editor, copywriter, and voiceover man. He’s moved around, but now lives in Australia, near Brisbane. He’s had the odd poem or two published in The Susquehanna Quarterly, Modern Haiku, and Folly.
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