Second Steeping

The budget is thin and the cupboard is bare,

there’s a smell of old grease in the stagnant air.

I’m dipping the bag for a second go-round,

waiting for some kind of taste to be found.

The water stays pale as a winter-starved sky,

and I’m staring at nothing and wondering why.

The string is a fuse that is too wet to light,

draped over the edge of the oncoming night.