Where the Field Stops Being a Field

The rain is turning the soccer pitch into a swamp.

I’m walking the perimeter, watching the white

blur out into the mud, a smear of lime

that used to say 'out' or 'in' or 'right'.

Now it’s just a milky puddle under my shoe,

a boundary that doesn't have the heart to stay.

I spent so much time worried about the rules,

about the edges of the map and the proper way

to stay inside the lines. But look at it now—

a chalky ghost bleeding into the weeds.

If the dirt doesn't care where the game ends,

why do I keep nursing all these small, neat needs?