Sharon Downer Poet Free verse

Six, Seven, Hit

Left
Left
Left
to the tap of the rim
one step,
curl the toes,
The drum major swings her hands
we step like she tells us
five-four time,
then four-four,
three-four,
back to four-four,
my fingers are like icicles,
the thin little white cloves cut at the finger tips,
it's a woodwind thing,
the heavy rain soaks through my blue pants,
drips from my visor into my eyes'
I fell it pooling on the indent of my big hat,
I nearly miss a step,
stumbling in the mud,
pasted to my preppy black shoes,
my nose runs from the cold,
so does everyone else's,
I look forward to a fifty-cent cup of hot chocolate,
my poncho sticks to my leg, 
the drum major halts us,
I breath heavily,
watching mist float away into the clouds,
the audience cheers,
we march of the field,
my clarinet warm and steaming,
still 
Left
Left
Left
Left

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