someone's at the door

we used

to live in a world where

the salesman

would

come to the door in a suit

and bow tie,

with a satchel

of goods.

whether 

encyclopedias,

Bibles,

or vacuums,

or cleaning products

to get the stains

out of your contour sheets

or wall to wall rugs.

we had Mormons

knocking

politely

with their brochures,

clean as a whistle, hair

combed

and white as flour,

we had the Latter-Day Saints,

the March of Dimes

ringing the bell

with their basket to fill.

Boys clubs, girl scouts

with their thin mints

and snickerdoodles,

but now when you hear

that knock on your door,

you grab a gun or a knife

or a hot pot

of stew,

and peek nervously through

the peep hole

and scream what do you

want,

who are you?