Fading Line

The rain came down last night,

washed the field clean

of yesterday's frantic sprint.

Now the chalk line, a pale scar

across the green, is blurring.

Not gone, not yet. But soft

at the edges, smudged,

a ghost of what it meant.

This is where you stop.

This is where you’re out.

Who drew it? Who decided

this much grass was fair?

Now it’s just a suggestion,

a memory of a rule,

fading into the dirt,

like everything else.

Like every promise made

under a harsh, bright sun.