Second Steep

The water's hot, the mug is clean,

but in my hand, the tea bag's limp.

A ghost of color, barely seen,

a meager, pale, and tired shrimp.

I drop it in, a quiet plop,

and watch the faint brown spread and fade.

A second life, before I stop,

a weaker brew, a small parade

of making do, of stretching thin.

The first cup gave its vibrant hue.

This one, a compromise within,

a faint reflection, barely true.