Second Steeping

Found it, limp and flat,

in yesterday's cold cup.

Just sitting there, like that,

all of its flavor used up.

But the water's boiling hot.

A new bag? Too much fuss.

This shriveled, sorry blot,

it'll have to do for us.

Again.

It bleeds a pale, weak stain.

A ghost of what it was.

Just bitter, watered pain.

For no good reason, just

because. Because I can't

bring myself to pitch

what's already spent.

Just a low, dull twitch.