Last Bulb

When the last bulb burns down

And sheds it brightened beam,

There is a pause,

Where the night owls

Hold their breath

And exhale the tilt the day has brought them.

 

There’s the choice now

Between closed or open

And to some,

This type of open is a screen adjustment.

But I breathe deep

And tap the beat on the sheets of my bed.

Imagining shapes in the shadows

That bend in the sway

Of lights from the driveway.

 

And if I’m lucky,

There’s no tearful taunts,

Or wild whooping

From the porches overlooking the streets.

Its here where I become clear

With my thick smile.