Sharp edges have gotten my number,
certainly, my blood type, reflex rate
(hyporeflexia) and charted my pathways.
They know my recipes requiring knives
or graters and linger in anticipation.

They fight for primacy on my workbench. 
I expect them there; see them lurking.
They can’t hide and are really pissed!
I cherish my scars; each Ouch! a cue,
a precious possibility of life to come.