Atypical

For him,

She’d make of weather her slave.

She’d stop rain to its very last drop.

Clear the foggiest skies and from grey

Make celestial blue see its brightest day.

For him,

She’d conquer the world, reign mountains

Fill never-ending buckets of Himalayan salt.

Make of youth, a drowning fountain.

Make of you, an angel without fault.

For him,

She’d make runways out of railroads.

Make mansions out of humble abodes.

All for when she did so, hear him say

With a pitiful chuckle tinted with remorse:

“Baby, that’s no role for a doll to play”.

Peck her forehead and take her home.