Bringing In The Sheep Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Forlorn characters migrate and forage
Upon the open planes of newly printed
Novels;
Their movements, the paradox of reflections,
Imitating our own,
Gives us pleasures and minor erections
To see the author’s mimicry, how she
Has refracted what she has learned into
A spiny meal;
Close to finishing with the first part,
I think about her in New England, my fingerprints
Now all over this crop she has grown,
Doing a good job of mimicking Dickens,
Sowing her petite mort into the product,
Once marketed will buy her meals, but this
Is one dame who will never feel the cruel
Job of the cutting tools, the self inflicted wounds
Baked and sat brightly dysfunctional at the
Dinner tables; for her tastes is for the novel
Gentry, picnicking far from the bitter,
Though bravest stones, and yet shows me how much further
I have to go; for it is a sad dance one must do
To cross the perilous mountain in the snows,
And it is a lonely kiss one must know,
To bring their children out from the senile mine,
And parade them in melodies until they
Molt, and are revealed in unchallenged recitations,
In lines in fealty to their owner’s soul,
Shepherded through the burry forest, and then
Brought into the revelations of their acknowledged home.