No one gave me the traffic report
For the freeway of of the open heart. 
Shouldn’t I have been warned
Of the clogged routes caused by
Collisions of dreams and reality?
Shouldn’t I have been told at birth
That driving on the autobahn of need
Was certain disaster?
Shouldn’t I have been warned go
Slower, not faster?
Shouldn’t I have been cautioned
Just a little
That wounds are like blown tires
Sending you into uncontrolled spins
Crashing you into oncoming traffic,
Hurting you and them, leaving you there
Standing and exposed to other motorists
Who learn by your hapless example?
Then, low and behold
Glory be to God, and 
All sorts of “amens” to whatever is up there!
Sometimes, on a clear Spring Sunday morning,
There’s a wide open lane,
And you’re sitting in a Porsche 918 Spyder convertible
Feeling just slightly less than a million dollars,
And you floor it,
Just to learn she’s with another guy tonight.