“(What is inside this cup of tea?)”

It is icy cold,
Dull in taste
From the creaming down
Of what was once a vibrant jug of black tea,
Tickling
The palate with a far from
Subtle hint—
Of lemony sourness,
Tart—too tart—
Of Vinegar tanginess,
Citrus?—

It leaves on
the birch coffee table
a clandestine trickle of droplets
like a suspicious circle of truth
stamping, I think—
(What is inside this cup of tea?)

Some time, the ice will melt away—
All that it gives, it takes away;
Empty it comes, empty it leaves.

Still, with some time,
The once assertive cup of iced lemon tea,
Now sits down on the bed next to me
Stirring a rapturous nondescript grief—
Albeit brief—
Burning
For a distant something;
Willing itself
Back on the freezer shelf,
Iced, cold, lemon and all—
Fossilized— till its next liaison.