Highway poem

Highway

I am patched and rough and old,
but mostly overused
and underappreciated.

I have many hills
that cars slip and slide down
every icy winter.

Today pretty trees surround me,
but I don’t care that the season is fall,
it is winter I worry most about.

In winter, the cold nips
at my old rough skin
that workers try to patch it.

But I should have been repaved
many years ago,
not patched up like an old quilt.

I am not at all like an old quilt
that can still keep people warm for many years,
once the holes are patched up.

Every time a car coasts down my hills
or climbs steadily up them,
I feel a sharp pain that doesn’t go away.

I do have pretty warning green signs
and dotted white lines,
but I’m no longer fine.

One day I may crumble
as cars make my rough skin rumble
and I try to hold on for the peoples’ sake.

For now I am okay,
because everything is mostly my way,
I’m the old highway.