"Deal"

Can I interest you in this low-mileage
poem which was only ever read by a little
old lady on Sunday afternoons to her cat
who didn't pay much attention, thus saving
a great deal of wear and tear on its capacity
for evoking emotion that's still like new?
The finish is clearly pristine, and there's hardly
any tread missing from its metaphors
which still grip the road firmly, so it obviously
can see your soul safely through the worst
imaginable bad weather, and after all isn't that
what we expect from a poem when we need one?