Last night I slipped into the shed out back
and lifted my dad’s toolbox off the shelf.
I tried not to make a sound doing it
but it was dark in there,
too dark to see the hose
coiled near the rakes and shovels;
I lay on the ground in a heap,
trying not to blow away the dust
covering the ancient lawnmower
and I swear I heard my mom’s eyelids
fly open, slicing away her irises.

She didn’t come outside to find the burglar.
Or maybe she was standing in the shadows,
bat in hand, ready to smack the murder
across the back of his head
as he dared traipse into her house
and destroy the nighttime peace
she coveted during the day.

I didn’t ask her over scrambled eggs
and toast this morning;
she’d wonder how I knew that someone had been out there,
someone who came around the back,
possibly avoiding a shot to the head;
who climbed through her own bedroom window
to lie under the covers with a flashlight and a set
of rusty, oil-drenched tools;
who, as the night wore on, fell asleep
clutching a monkey wrench to her heart.