Outline of a Foot

The hopscotch grid is losing its geometry,

the six and seven smoothed by passing sneakers

until they’re just white clouds on the gray.

I didn't mean to ruin the kid’s hard work,

but my boot came down heavy and certain.

I felt the snap and the crunch of the stick,

a sound like a dry bone giving up.

Now there’s a smear on my rubber sole,

a powdery ghost that follows me to the car.

It looks like I’ve stepped in a fire,

or maybe just in the middle of someone’s afternoon.