She stands at the riverside
holding a bloody crowbar,
watching the grain barges
float by on their way to the Gulf.
The steel in her bruised hand,
once used by ancestors to pry
worn shoes off work horses, to
tear down plaster, yank floor tile,
now her gift to the river to join
all those other victim's weapons.
What tales the turtles could
tell of the arsenal down there
in the mud. Now what to do
for the balance of her afternoon?
Of course she can't return home,
or stop for a drink at The Boxcar,
where he had done shots until closing
last night and come home mean.
Perhaps the church. Fuck
the sheriff's department.
But the river is so inviting,
like the down comforter her
mother once tucked her into.
When the water promises
the fire within her will finally
be quenched, she begins to load
her pockets with river rocks.
Tom's YouTube video reading of "The Crowbar"
Tom confesses: "The world is full of weapons and opportunity, so I'm always amazed how seldom a crowbar is swung, a glass ashtray thrown, chicken wings served sans poison. In the world of my protagonist, the incentive to violence is even less rare, and harsh justice is often found in the conjunction of the two."
