Like Hands into a Pocket

Your history disappears into the folds of an apron
like hands into a pocket, your body of work the carcass
of a feeder pig pulled from the depths of the unreliable
Hotpoint 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 the empty pockets (still) waiting to be filled.

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