Do Not Disturb

Who the fuck is that knocking on my door?
It’s Sunday morning.
I am in bed.
My head hurts.
And now this fool has pressed the door bell,
releasing a bright and happy fairground tune inside.

I listen.
I am still.
Gone away, yet?

No, he’s asking a passer-by
“Which one is number four?”
I am number six.
The passer-by doesn’t know.
May not live locally.
May just be passing through.

So, Fool knocks my door again.
Louder, with his fist,
like he is trying to break the door down.
And once more the doorbell,
the happy tune.

I am at passive aggressive full tilt.
Rehearsing what I will say.
“Night shift work.”
Is the lie I come up with.
Or, I could throw on some clothes,
pull on my green wellies,
find an unspent match
to clench between
my upper and lower front teeth.
Rub dirt into my hands.
Make out like I had been gardening.
How can Fool outside the front door,
imagine I would answer at this late stage?

I listen.
I am still.
Gone away, yet?

Well, so to speak,
I’ve heard his footsteps travel away.
But, it is only a short distance.
Now he’s knocking on another door.
Opposite mine.
An elderly woman who used to run a brothel from her home,
she answers.
Out of habit.

I hear him ask her
“Which one is number four?”
I am number six.
Madam knows.
She lives locally.
She’s definitely not just passing through.

I watch from the bedroom window.
Fool turns around and I cannot see his eyes.
Only the dark lenses of his sunglasses.
Can he see me?
I back away from the window,
return to bed a coward.

I hear him knocking again,
but it is coming from next door.
“Now I am awake,” I tell myself,
despite already being awake
when Fool first knocked my door and rang the doorbell,
“I might as well get up and make breakfast.”

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