Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Dust For My Tongue

The broken tea bag sits on the counter,
its innards spilled out like some old rag doll
I used to play with as a child.
I look at it.
Lifeless.
Helpless.
And I ask myself,
“Where is the pleasure”?
It’s not in my cup.
I’ve only got clear water
mixed with some strange residue.
No bright green or
earthen brown
to meet my lips.
Just dust for my tongue.