One leg kicks
out backward,
hits the toilet––

ouch: the dog
wants water––
the lid is down.

Two 3-lb chickens
roast in the oven;
a chicken-shaped

timer says 45
minutes more.
Three cook books

lie on the counter
open to chicken
recipes. Four clocks

tick-tock. Five pillows
plump at the head
of the unmade bed

(the Sunday crossword
surrendered).
Six freshly-folded

shirts tucked into
a bedroom cubby:
rose, azure, white

with light blue stripes,
black, black,
more black.

Seven candles
burning.
Eight doodles

on a yellow Post-it
note by the phone.
Nine books of poetry,

unopened,
in a pile
on the desk.

Ten new
pink blooms
on the balcony.