Out of Bounds

The groundskeeper drags a burlap sack

leaving a trail of artificial snow.

He’s mapping out the way to get back

to the rules that everyone should know.

A kid is sobbing by the sideline flag

because his feet were half an inch away.

I watch the white dust billow and sag

in the humid center of the day.

I stepped too close to the painted edge

and now it’s ghosting on my leather shoes.

It’s a pale and dusty kind of pledge

for people who have everything to lose.