cutting board

I began this poem with the phrase sliced tuna, a serious grasping at straws�"
my boyfriend
eyes dropping over my shoulder in the seat next to me
           reached over and typed TOO SOONA
with delicate punches,
help held down with the space bar �"a laughing culinary cure-all
                                     to all my guts (s)played out on a plate, sliced thin
my pink-skinned clothes cut to fit (neither too thin nor too thick but wearable for all seasons until they’re rotten for no reason but age like the softball�"wrinkle free!�"uniform from the box in the garage)
And then:
a French bulldog snuffles by,  obsessed with a  tennis ball wading in blankets
always allowing it to slide away  just to attack with gusto’d zeal
and then again:
commercials advertising anti-aging cream and Life-Alert pendants  
talismans to ward off the inevitable

wrinkled pinks skins turned outward and lined like a mahogany bookcase
so many titles
what my skin, flushed with imagined wounds and deep aspirations
will become

(minus heavy cold cream and tacky heart monitors)