Second Time Around

The damp, flat bag, unwrapped from its damp string,

the ghost of citrus, faint upon my thumb.

Into the cup, another pale offering,

a weak transfusion, waiting for the hum

of boiling water. Just a little color now,

a wash, a shadow of the first, strong brew.

A second chance, but you know anyhow

it won't be quite the same, not fresh, not new.

It's thin, this warmth, a comfort barely there.

But sometimes, barely there is all you get.

And you drink it down, breathing thin, cold air,

and try not to remember what you've met.