In The Pantomimes Of The Plagiarims Of My Father Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now I may be starving in the pantomimes of the plagiarisms
OF my forefather
Until all of this isn't enough—and we have to thread
Our otherwise rainbows underneath ridges
Of an otherwise Christmas—
And all of the ghosts of wherever have to pretend to
Be swinging swaying into another graveyard
They happened to talk about or
To believe in—into that most beautiful of echinopsis
Just like the tin toys of our children striking out and playing upon
The stage of all of our happiest
Children: sway and pretending to make love—basking
And obeying the daylight before they all became
Heirlooms of what they were expected to become:
So they became these things—and the rest of their yesterdays
Echoes anyways—became beautiful for the things that weren't
Even there—of daylight an daylight—and ballrooms
And ballrooms—
Those perpetual amnesiacs that could not sustain themselves
If it wasn't inevitably for the fact that we
Just kept them dancing- in our rooms—in our rooms.