Desuetude

I leave this old thing here on the ground to decay in the sun's light

It was a part of me, but it has its own atmosphere now

It is useless to me. I walk away

Why doesn't it disappear? Where does its disgusting smell come from?

The stench follows me: on sidewalks, in courtyards, to a bench in the park

I return the next day. I see people walk on it and drive their cars past it. Dogs stop to piss on it. Nobody appears to notice it reflecting them, no one smells it, no one sees me watching it

Now old and fetid, but liberated and perpetual; it was a part of me