Politics and Potholes

 In chambers grand with voices raised,
They talk of roads and futures praised.
Debates unfold in suits and ties,
While asphalt cracks beneath the skies.

A ribbon cut, a speech declared,
A promise made, a crowd ensnared.
But out beyond the marble floors,
Lie streets with scars and broken pores.

The potholes wait with patient grins,
Collecting rain and tire spins.
Campaigns pass by with painted smiles,
But never fill the weathered miles.

A budget line, a fleeting vote,
A pledge that barely stays afloat.
The public sighs, the wheels complain,
Yet potholes bloom like April rain.

For every plan that's set in ink,
Ten more descend into the sink.
And politics, with polished prose,
Can't mend the cracks the city knows.

Still, every spring, the talks return,
With coffee cold while engines churn.
Yet what we want is simply this—
A road that isn’t hit or miss.

(Alternative title: Michigan my Michigan)