Ghost of Tea

The water ran, a thin, weak stream,

over the brown, sad paper dream.

Yesterday's brew, fished from the bin,

with just a hint of what had been.

It hung there limp, a soggy square,

a faded promise in the air.

No rich, dark stain, no hearty bite,

just pale regret, and sickly light.

I squeezed it hard, a desperate plea,

for color, warmth, some life in me.

But all it gave was muddy tint,

a bitter taste, a miser's hint.

Of wanting more, from what was spent,

a cheap, small shame, heaven-sent.

To remind me where I stand and try,

to wring dry comfort from a lie.