Regulation

Six a.m. The groundskeeper

pushing his chalk wheel through fog.

The squeak of it carried

across the parking lot.

I pulled over. Watched from the car.

White line on wet grass,

dissolving at the far end

before the near end was drawn.

He worked the whole field—

touchlines, penalty box, center circle.

Nobody there yet.

Maybe nobody coming.

One fall I coached my nephew's team.

Last game, no parents showed.

The boys played anyway,

shirts untucked, one kid in sandals.

I kept score on my phone.

The groundskeeper finished

and walked the sideline back

without looking at what he'd made.

I sat in the car

watching the fog

take the far line first.