I spit the toothpaste down the sink,
idly pull out a couple stray eyelashes,
rinse old skin off my hands,
throw the toenail clippings in the garbage.
Somewhere in prairie landfills
are the first diaper I ever soiled,
the shirt I threw up on the first time I tried Southern Comfort,
condoms from my wayward early twenties,
every hair every barber
has ever cut from my head,
and all my baby teeth.
There is more of me out there, decomposing
than here, contained in skin, composing.