When Boundaries Blur

The rain came hard enough to ruin the game,

kicking up mud, smudging the white chalk line.

A kid’s cleat caught it, tearing a ragged slash

across the grass, where once everything was neat.

That line—straight and sure—unspooled like a frayed rope,

and the ball rolled past, muddy and unclaimed.

Somewhere between the dirt and the wet air,

the rules slipped loose, unmoored from their anchors.

I watched the mud swallow the clear edge,

and thought how fragile the marks we trust to hold us,

a white line—gone in a single wet footfall,

the boundary broken before the whistle blew.