The Straight Line

The groundskeeper pushes his cart,

a slow white plume from the machine.

He walks the edges, perfectly straight,

making squares on the green.

The kids, they don't even see it,

just run their small, fast races.

They cut across the pristine white,

leaving smudges in their places.

It’s a clean boundary, set with care,

for rules they won’t obey.

Like the ones inside my head, always there,

but washed out by the end of the day.