Every day, I try to take at least ten thousand steps.

Every hour, when I’m writing, I get up from my hard chair,
measure time with the clock
and the laps through the great room, down the long hall,
and back again.
The scientist in me measures everything, including how many laps
in an hour.

In the before time, there was a huge treadmill
filling the space between the sitting area and kitchen.
It’s rumbling noise bothered the dogs and
made it hard for the man to listen to the television
as I let the machine do the counting, miles,
miles per hour, the daily hour
while I read from the tablet in front of me.

I read a lot of books that way, carving out time
for two tools in my self-care kit.

Then, when everything shut down,
when I had more time than ever,
the treadmill quit.
Just like that.
I ordered the mother board from Amazon,
but we never got it set just right.

We hauled the treadmill to the thrift store,
set it on the covered porch,
and drove away.

The house felt bigger.
There was space to move,
and I worked out my route.

I had less time to read,
but more time to think.

Today, in the sixth hour of writing,
I measure my laps
before sitting to write again,
and guess what the prompt is,
what I’m to write about.
Tell me without saying the word.
Your turn.