I think I'm sensing a pattern here...

Okay, so not to flog a dead horse here (too late), but I seem to be stuck in a post-apocalyptic rut right now. Don't know why, but I'm producing, so I guess I'll just roll with it. This one is kind of a prose poem, I suppose. It doesn't rhyme, there's not a beat that you can dance to, but to me it just seemed to want to be a poem. It certainly doesn't work as a story, and I'm not even sure that it works, period. But, hey, tell me what you think. Both barrels.

This evening I sat on my porch and watched the world end.
I watched as the stars winked out, one by one.
I watched as the neighbors loaded a van with everything they own, and then drove away.
I watched as people ran by, frightened eyes wide as they wondered where they could go.
I could have told them that there was nowhere to go.
That's why I'm sitting right here.
That's why I've got a bottle of wine, and a glass, and a good record on the stereo.
That's why I'm still sitting here.
That's why I'm not with the rioters, or the looters, or the runners.
That's why I'm not stuck in a traffic jam, angrily honking my horn.
That's why I'm not glued to my TV, watching the news and drowning in hope.
It's a beautiful night out, and I don't want to waste it.
After all, it looks like this is the last one we'll ever see.
There are still a few stars, and I watch each one, as they disappear.
I watch them turn to blackness, and I close my eyes and try to see it for as long as I can.
And when it's gone, I open my eyes and find another star.
The moon is still there.
I wonder when it will wink out.
I wonder what will happen when it does.
I wonder if I will get to see one last sunrise.
I wonder if I will get to finish my wine.
I wonder if I will have to flip my record when it ends.
This evening I sat on my porch and watched the world end.