Divorce of a Different Kind: Melanie Toschi

You are the heavy fetters of iron,

the prisoner's nightmare.

You are the fork on the plate

and the matinee puppeteer. 

You are the rust on the nail,

and the nor'easter on the seas.

However, you are not the chair by the Thanksgiving table,

or the patterned sunshine on the side of the house,

or the snow under the sled.

And you are certainly not the operatic aria.

There is just no way that you are the operatic aria.

It is possible that you are the last strength of the dying soldier,

maybe even the musings of the schizophrenic, 

but you are not even close

to being the first cries of the newborn baby. 

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the wheels on the school bus

nor the bronze chalice on the communion table.

It might interest you to know, 

speaking of the plentiful opportunities in life,

that I am the rubber in the running shoes.

I also happen to be the monarch butterfly,

the first leaves on the branches in spring

and the unopened bud on the rosebush.

I am also the prayer of the drunkard

and the Artist's paintbrush.

And now, I don't want the heavy fetters of iron.

You will always be the heavy fetters of iron.

You are heavy fetters of iron,

not to mention the prisoner and -somehow- the nightmare.