Weak Tea

The pantry is mostly just salt and some spice.

I’m checking the bags for the remnants of rice.

It’s three days to payday and everything’s tight,

so I’m heating the kettle for one more tonight.

The bag from this morning is sitting right there,

cold on the saucer and starting to tear.

I drop it back in and the water stays tan,

a ghost of a drink for a hungry-eyed man.

The string is all soggy and limp on the rim,

and the chances of flavor are looking quite slim.

It’s honey-hued water that tastes like the cup,

but it’s all that I’ve got just to keep myself up.