Four Minutes

Four minutes. I was handed him.

The room was doing what rooms do—

the leaning, the soft noise, the crying.

Someone looking for themselves in someone new.

He was warm. He made a sound.

I said: look at him. I said it twice.

I waited for whatever opens.

The overhead light. The precise

smallness of his hands. I handed him back.

I walked the hall. The vending machine.

B-four. Styrofoam. Both hands.

Bad coffee. The routine

hum. The cup more present

in my hands than he had been.

I stayed until I could go back in.

He was sleeping. The whole scene

the same as when I left.

I stood at the edge of him.