But also meaningless things, like a hair in the tupperware.

A toothpick wedged between the wall and carpet. Chapstick.

Leftover chili congealing in the fridge, not even his recipe.

In its little baggie, a spare button that never got sewn on.

In the same baggie, a piece of chipped tooth he kept, unable

to be reattached. Likewise the tiny steel and copper rectangle

he swore belonged to some device he owned. Old metro card

wrapped in a drug store receipt for gummy bears and Altoids.

Hotel shampoo half gone, the rest of a matchbox, last cough drop

in the unraveling roll. Grounds in the coffee maker. Lint in the dryer

with fibers from his black V-necks and possibly his skin cells.

Disposable contacts. Wadded tissue speckled with excess earwax.

Beard clippings clinging to the soap dispenser. The smell

of his fart in the car seat. Everything that’s a part of the body

until it’s not, crossing the boundary between life and substance.

Fingernails collected at the edge of the bathroom wastebin

over months, a dirty glut of moons. Objects no reasonable person

could be sentimental about, like the busted turquoise watering can

in the garage. A cheap bicycle pump. A Spongebob keychain

he probably didn’t even use. They have nothing to do with him,

or with the idea of him. The idea that one could know and categorize

all the things he’d ever touched. Real junk. One gel shoe insert.

A frayed rope. Hot sauce packets. But also five bucks, two quarters,

and a dime. I mean all this random crap. The dumb stuff. A broken pen.

The last pearly-blue smear of toothpaste he left in the sink. Stupid shit.

An outdated charger. A safety pin. A Tic-Tac. Stupid, stupid shit.

The greaseprint where he leaned his forehead against the window.