The phrase totally underplays the impact

of having your lovely red Alero T-boned by a guy 

in a white Mazda with incredibly low mileage

on his life. Four eyewitnesses volunteer their numbers

before the guy himself shows up fifteen minutes later,

saying it took that long to find parking.

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This unlikely delay screws up the police dispatcher

and adds two hours to getting processed at the Collision

Reporting Centre, somewhere just south of Ungava Bay.

Nobody apologizes for anything because it might be

misconstrued as a confession. Your dreams

become redundant slow-mo replay time-loop leaps

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through overgrown Day-Glo underbrush. You spend

the next three weeks hoping the insurance adjuster

will agree to repair your car. You want their offer

to mirror the good life you don’t deserve

but still feel you’ve earned. But it’s cheaper and easier

for them to simply write it off.

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You wonder why you even need a car.

Luckily, you get a deal on a three-year-old Corolla.

Barely broken in, which is almost fun, except

it feels like Mazda guy has plundered your savings.

Still, whatever you were planning, you’re better off.

After all, choices can’t stay parked forever.