If I Were a Poet

I go for a walk every day.
My pedometer graph
is green on good days,
yellow on not so good days.
Lately it’s mostly yellow,
sometimes with
a little orange.

The line slopes downward,
like a plane making an emergency landing.

Soon it will be a flat and red,
from left to right,
mile after mile of flatness,
with one final little bump:
the period at the end of a sentence,
the tombstone at the end of a life.