Lexanoia on the Roads
by 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!