A Wee Poem: Player

He scans the ground ahead,
left, right and centre.
Eyes are for seeing.
There's a line you shouldn't cross.
It's a line that marks a boundary.
He imagines it as
Thick
White
like a line
on a tennis court.

But this is no game.
There are no rules.
Although there will be losers,
eventually.

He knows this.

He scans the ground ahead,
left, right and centre,
his eyes
peeled.

He will never find the line.
The line is invisible,
which,
in a game
that isn't a game
with no rules
only losers,
is fair.

In any case,
he crossed it
days ago.