High school marching band camp ruined me.
Ever since, I find myself counting my steps
in eight sets of eight: one, two, three, four,
five, six, seven eight; two, two three, four,
five, six, seven, eight . . . on and on and on,
as if I were still fourteen, marching across
freshly painted lines on the practice field
in blazing August heat, sweat running down
my back, nose running from hay fever, left
foot first, eight steps to every five yards,
thighs lifted high, parallel to the ground,
listening to Mr. Somerville barking out
the cadence through a crackly megaphone,
wondering if I might die on that field.
Dozens of years later, and hundreds
of miles away, hiking deep in the woods,
I’m still marching on, counting my steps
now and perhaps for the rest of my life.
©2025 Jim Magaw
