The Last Diner
Old white crumbling foam under black leather,
Unashamedly peeking out of the years’ old rips,
Surrounded by the whitewashed stuccoed walls,
Darkened by recesses forgotten by the neon strips,
An ageless white mug stained with countless bags,
The latest one infusing regular Indian specialty tea,
A couple of squares of white sugar pours into it,
The plastic spoon stirs its short existence flimsily,
Then endures the final use as his free toothpick,
His whitened smile rarely showed after the decent,
His dazzling outfit, now dull and covered in mud,
He knew that this was the calm before the main event,
The case against him was circumstantial at best,
But the media published everything in black and white,
The verdict was decided before the trial had begun,
And this steaming blend would be his last drink that night,
One last visit before he was condemned to his fate,
Draining the chipped mug before tipping the unaware owner,
For tomorrow higher powers had already set that date,
And the pitch black ink was waiting its publication in the toner.
Part Dalek 