Billy Poem by Ima Ryma

I was driving my car that day.
Dashing across the street he came.
I could not swerve out of his way.
Police said I was not to blame.
His name was Billy I found out,
Six years old, as old as he'd be.
His death a tragedy no doubt,
One forever that would haunt me.
All the 'what ifs' have come to mind
For a dif'rent outcome instead,
Searching my soul hoping to find
Forgiveness that Billy is dead.

Whenever I do drive a car,
Thought of Billy is never far.