Left Poem by Ima Ryma

My son ran through some wet cement
Freshly laid on our sidewalk.
Then on his merry way he went.
When he got home, we'd have a talk.
I knew he was in a rush to
Go with his friends to the ball game,
And no doubt did not mean to do
Something mean with his bad feet aim.
But he should pay more attention
To how and where his feet did tread.
Later, a call about my son,
Hit and run victim, he was dead.

Seeing his footprints ev'ry day,
I just could not, and moved away.