Her Own Apron

she wanted her own apron
for cooking in her first apartment,
something cheery, maybe Pink,
(the name of her bakery one day),
she likes polka dots.
An apron with all her mother’s
recipes, her cooking advice
written in the topstitching,
hidden in the pockets.
She’ll wipe the flour from her
nose and cheeks onto the front
of her apron, untying it in one
movement, hanging it on a hook
in the kitchen as she heads
out to entertain her guests.