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.