The Game

The hopscotch board has been fading for days.

The numbers are barely visible now, a haze

of chalk dust dissolving into concrete,

the way everything meets

its end eventually, piece by piece.

I stepped over it this morning and my shoe

caught the number seven. The white dust flew

across the dark concrete. She was watching from the window—

the neighbor's daughter, her face hollow,

didn't say anything to me.

I wanted to apologize.

I wanted to tell her I didn't mean to revise

her game, that I was just walking,

that I didn't mean to be stalking

her sidewalk art like it was nothing.

But I just kept walking.

This is what I'm good at—

letting things disappear like that,

chalk dust settling into cracks,

drawings that come back

to nothing.

The sidewalk is empty now.

Just dark concrete, and I don't know how

to feel about it. Did I erase it

or just walk past it?

Does it matter which?