Pounding

Pounding wakes me up

but for a moment I think it’s sunlight.
Then the pounding comes again. Loud. 
from my front door and I am in
Too short shorts and a shirt that doesn’t quite cover me,
so I wait, thinking they have the wrong door anyway.
They are insistent. Pounding to the point I fear the door might give,
it is after all not a very good door,
it doesn’t always align with the frame and
without the deadbolt you can usually push it in.
As I change, throwing on thin sweats with holes in them
and a shirt that has the name of a university I no longer attend,
I thank my husband for locking the door back up on his way to work. 
I run to the door, anything to stop that pounding.
The man on the other side peers down at me
he explains brusquely that they are doing work on the sidewalk,
and I need to move my car unless I want it covered
in whatever it is they are spraying. So I grab my keys,
they sit next to the front door in a bin full of things
I’m never quite sure where to put. Like shoe polish and sunscreen.
I walk out my door and it is only when I am crossing
the gravel covered lot, that I remember I didn’t put shoes on,
it is only when all three construction workers

watch me slide into my car I remember I don’t have a bra on,
it is only when I go through the humiliating process of
moving my car over a single parking spot
that I truly wish I hadn’t answered the door
as the pounding would’ve been better than this.