Like a Hand into a Pocket

Your history disappears into the folds of an apron
like a hand into a pocket,

your body of work the carcass of a feeder pig
pulled from the depths of the unreliable Hotpoint oven

that came with the house you never wanted
but the house said I think you need me and so here you are,

with your apron, and your picnic roast,
and all of your pockets (still) waiting to be filled.

Leave a Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.