Regard

At first, people smell you with great satisfaction.
Inhaling your pleasant newbornness like perfume.
Held high to their breasts,
Snuggling their noses into your wispy hair.
Pressed tightly to their chests.

They coochie-coochie-coo you,
Delighted by your weightlessness
And odorless feces.

You repay them with gurgle and gasp and--
If they are lucky, a smile
(Or passed gas).

Later, much later, your smell becomes fetid and stale,
And passers-by ask themselves if they can hold their breaths
For more than seven seconds.
But slowly, irresolutely,
They inhale your rankness in short, furtive sniffs,
Guarding their noses against the assault of you.

Eyes turned down, they avoid acknowledging you,
As you sit in a wheelchair near the sliding doors of the facility,
Wearing a polyester shirt,
Sweatpants,
And no-slip socks.

They disregard you,
Offended by your weightlessness
And toothless gums.

You repay them with gurgle and gasp and--
If you are lucky, a smile
(Or passed gas).

As you wait,
Alone, to die.

(On what day did you pass from adorable to ugly?)
(At what hour did your relevance end?)