Temporary Boundaries

The rain beat down last night,

a scrub brush on the city's face.

And this morning, the hopscotch grid

is almost gone.

Just faint white ghosts

on grey concrete, a blurred square here,

a half-moon there, where some kid

had jumped.

It was a game, a rule,

a line you couldn't cross

unless you hopped, or skipped, or flew.

Now it's just pavement again,

a blank slate for the next rain

to wash clean, or some new boot

to scuff across, not caring

what was once laid out, so clear.