sunday afternoon

who could be knocking at my door
at this hour.
the sun already down,
me, half asleep
in the sweet comfort of
an afternoon nap.
what manner of man
or woman,
keeps banging their fist
against the door.
persistent and hard.
are they selling wood.
magazines,
or cookies.
do they want money for the poor,
the blind,
the incontinent.
is it a fireman with boot
holding the dark
hollow out
for change? or a neighbor
perhaps,
desperate for a bowl of sugar.
you don't ask for much
from the world,
but being left alone
on a cold sunday afternoon
is one of them.