The Last Light Poem by W.I. Stoneberger

It's late at night
and there's no one else awake
in the whole world,
or so it seems.
Cigarette smoke swirls the light bulb,
the only one still burning.
The television does all the talking,
rambling like an insomniac
through the wee hours.
The house creaks,
settling into sleep.
Snores roll down the stairs,
rumble and tumble.
Dreams scent the air,
making their presence known.
A clock chimes,
stealing through the almost stillness.
3: 42 a.m.
It's late,
and the last light in the whole world
goes out.