Second Steeping

Four in the morning is a quiet thief.

It steals the heat from the floorboards

and leaves the cupboards mostly bare.

I find one bag sitting on a saucer,

dried stiff from the afternoon.

I drop it in the mug again

and watch the water turn a weak,

doubtful shade of tan.

I have to squeeze the paper skin

until the string leaves a yellow stain

on the laminate counter.

There’s no sugar left in the bowl.

Just the taste of something

that has already given

everything it had to give.