The diner nibbles biscuit
by Diane Hine
because a stealthy misfit
has finished off the brisket and the pie.
His methods are erratic
and crumbs bedaub his jacket
unheeded by his static glassy eyes.
Upon his thin long fingers
a whiff of Cheddar lingers.
The end of a malingerer is nigh.
His ears are pricked for whispers.
A presage stills his whiskers
before tight sprung ballistic metal flies.
The silence is emphatic.
The stillness is dramatic
to underscore a tragic mouse demise.
Quick nails tip tap the china.
He grinds his biscuit finer.
Behind his specs, the diner's eyes are dry.