go away, i'm making a sandwich

you pretend that
no one is home, as
a stranger knocks
at your door with a
box of something
and a serious looking
clipboard in his hand.
you crane your neck
over the sink
to look at him.
he sees you in the
kitchen, half naked,
as you make a sandwich
at the counter.
I can see you,
the man says. but
you don't answer.
you put two slices
of toasted rye
bread down
and lay on some
ham and cheese in
even amounts,
delicately. your
sandwiches are works
of art.
on goes the lettuce
as the doorbell
rings again
and again. a little
mayo, some onions.
roasted tomatoes.
you slice the sandwich
in half, carefully
pressing down so
as not to topple
the whole thing over.
hey, the voice says
as you pop a beer
and throw some
chips and a pickle
onto the plate.
are you going to answer
your door, or what?
you wonder what he's
holding in that box
beneath his arm.
but not enough to
find out, plus you
are hungry and the
sandwich is ready.