The Unnumbered Square

A question can be a chalk square
left blank at the end of a game.
The numbered ones lead toward it,
white corners rubbed soft
by the work of getting there.

What comes next?

The conversation leaves that opening:
another song to ask about,
another image with a name,
earlier work worth keeping
as the next thing takes its shape.
Progress needs somewhere to land,
not merely a longer promise
running ahead of it.

Imagine the chalk route now:
one square narrow,
two squares side by side,
then a stretch that asks
for a different balance.
The pattern offers rhythm;
the change makes someone notice
where their weight will go.

Returning belongs to the game too.
But find where the first throw landed
before making the same throw again.
A missing answer is not always
an empty place.

Leave the uncertain square marked.
The rest of the pavement
can still hold new shapes.

And keep the last space open,
not polished into a finish line.
Let it hold the useful energy
of a question asked plainly,
without answering itself.

There is room for a longer leap,
and room to set both feet down.
Neither movement needs to rub away
the small white marks
that made the route readable.