The Recklessness of Truth

Whose lights are on in your neighborhood tonight? Who's lying back watching t.v. while the restless hum of the city fills in the back ground noise? The crescendo and decrescendo of passing cars on the street, the ebb and flow of light that opens like a fan on the ceiling, the voice of one dog talking just to hear his own voice. Who's waiting for the kettle to boil and take their tea to bed, listening to jazz from far away and breathing out in a rush as they stretch into a pillow with a head already on it?
My lights filter out into the dark presenting a silhouette bent and tired from the drive, the fan whispering to me about a breeze I felt years ago, relentless in its detail and colourful in my mind's eye. The floor is cold and I can't find my slippers, don't want to disturb the calm, chocolate cake dessert still filling me with a peace I will need to sleep.
Whose lights are on?