Bottom of the cup

 The grounds swirl, whirl,

  making patterns in dregs.

Brown stains littered there,

  from morning cups.

Full of awakening,

  short on fulfilling.

Time and again we come 

  to the end and stare.

Where did it go? Do I refill?

  how mush more?

Or just sit and stare at

  the bottom, reading grounds.