They pass it to me like a glass bowl

They pass it to me like a glass bowl

I am terrified of dropping,

but I am mostly just tired.

The head is heavy as a stone.

The skin is a strange, mottled purple,

like a plum that fell too early.

I look for the spark everyone mentions,

the one that makes the sleep-debt

worth the price of admission.

Instead, I feel the scratch

of the plastic Velcro on my wrist,

the hospital light bleeding

through the cheap, white blinds.

It is just a small, warm weight

waiting to be fed.