The circadian rhythm of my body is off.
Watch the tea bag dangle and twirl about itself,
winter washed fingers twist the thin white thread.
Puddles circle outwards as the bag hits the water;
they hit the barrier reef.
Can it sense this joy?
A short lived half hour depending on the sips.
Like dipping your lower half into a
continuously draining jacuzzi.
My eyes droop,
I cant remember thoughts anymore.
My muscles feel weak,
I can’t support my own weight anymore.
Should I sleep?
Or dangle this tea
above the yellow water
and know it craves a bath.
It won’t submerge, for fear of getting its hair wet.
What’s so bad about the bottom of a cup?
Awfully cowardly for something that’s attached to a string.
How many times has it ever drowned?
A bag without a string, that I can understand.
I’d be more apprehensive about soaks if I didn’t have arms.
And the worst part? The ever-draining cup.
Just where does the water go when the mug tilts?
They come packaged, sealed tight.
They live in water, boiling hot.
They’re left alone, just soggy leaves when the water drains.
Then it’s warm for just one second.
Warmth like pissing oneself which then turns into
What then of the short life of a bag of tea?
One bath and then a moist cold eternity of uselessness.
I rather stay in the warmth of the womb then.
Keep me in my packaging if that’s what life holds.
At least then I can sleep,
and safely bathe without a string,
gently bobbing around with potential.
And when I’m ready,
perhaps I’ll grace you.
Or continue to bob around untested,
never leaving the warmth and security of
a tin of tea.