She sat. Steaming. Tag blowing gently in the breeze.
On the tiled table of the covered porch. Waiting
for a sip. Someone to come along. Brewed
minutes ago. Long forgotten. The steam has stopped billowing.
Tempid she became. Cold and tasteless. Forgotten in the home.
Foot falls echo from the house. Doors swing wide.
Laughter and conversation spill outside.
“Oh, my tea!” She chuckles. As she takes a sip.
“It’s gone cold. Let’s go revive it.”
Dumped in the sink as the kettle is filled up.
A new bag hits the bottom of the cup. We’ll
try again. Maybe this time. She can enjoy this tea.
Instead of it growing cold while waiting patiently.
