Where is he the tiny race car driver?

Did he fall of a cliff following the pied piper?

It doesn’t do well to dwell in the past

But why does my mirror keep coming back?

Did he love football and play other games?

Or did he merely like the sound of their names?

It doesn’t do well to look behind

You miss the view of the front in your mind

Was it you driving that night?

Or was it your bottle of wine?

It doesn’t do well to try to remember

Over a burning corpse’s embers

Where is the laughter that lurked here?

The tiny heart that at night was tucked in?

It doesn’t do well to blame yourself for a while

For no parent should have to bury their child