Poetry comes
sometimes
in precious drops
hard won from
a tea bag
saved by the sink
folded in foil
for a second cup
at lunch with
saltines and butter —
if rations allowed —
her whole life,
my grandmother’s,
was that spent tea bag,
all of its elixir
steeped for someone else
with none left to spare
for her own self
rationing every bit
so brittle she broke
too early
rare glints of love
and laughter
that peeked out
through the folds
like poetry almost,
or should have been
her sparce, beautiful life
a poem, really,
that not too many
could read
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
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