The groundskeeper walked the far end of the field

The groundskeeper walked the far end of the field

with the chalk machine. One line came out bent —

a gentle wobble, two or three inches —

and by the time he'd notice, the morning had spent

itself. He kept going. Didn't look back.

He turned and set the next row down straight.

The crooked line dried in the sun behind him,

chalk dust settling into the grass to wait.

Nobody came. I stood on the path

and watched it. The rest of the field

is ruler-white, all those lines

that held their course. Except one didn't yield.

There's a game this afternoon.

Someone will run along that bent line,

dispute a call, and never know the fault

was there from the design —

that the man who drew it kept walking,

that I watched from the path and walked on too.

The chalk is dry. The line is what it is.

The game will find it when it's through.