Before they leveled the playing field

one side was always running uphill,

which was hard. And the other side

was always running downhill, which was

hard too--hard to stop the ball from rolling,

hard to stop yourself from running

when you're running down a hill after a ball.

Downhill had certain advantages though.

It was true. But uphill had advantages too--

you could belay; you could stick a strategic

foot out, trip a careening downhill guy

mid-stride. And anyway, we usually

switched at halftime. So when the referees

came up with the idea, we scratched our heads

and tried to envision a playing field that was

level. "You mean get rid of the hill?" we asked

incredulously. They nodded vehemently

and their excellent silver whistles hanging

on lanyards round their necks bobbed in sympathy.

The bulldozers and the backhoes arrived

the next day, the tines of their buckets biting

into our hill, eating it away before our eyes,

and before we could say time out, or foul play,

or off sides--which some of us did say, although

by then it was too late--they'd gone and changed

the game forever. Some of us quit outright, preferring

to sit in judgment up in the stands--the closest

thing to a hill that they had. And some of us kept on playing,

adapting ourselves to the changing landscape,

learning the new steps, and the new names, making

new friends, many of whom were so young that

they'd never played on a hill. They could only

imagine, they said. They could only shake their heads

and regard us in a squinting sort of way, as though

the sun were going down behind a hill, behind us.

(orignally published in Paul’s book, Hurt into Beauty (FutureCycle Press, 2012)

Paul Hostovsky’s latest book of poems is Mostly (FutureCycle Press, 2021). He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter