by John Goggin

Echo across the the quiet pool, so coyly dangles, drops her
doilied handkerchief,
and casting from the corner of her eye a glance, unnoticed,
picks the pretty up again.
Then dropping all pretense, she clears her throat –ahem–,
–ahem– again and then once more.
“He must be sleeping… or
weeping… or… perhaps just a simple boor.”,
and about to flounce away she sighs,
“Another pond, another guy.”

Whereupon he answers, “Yes?”, from deep within his dream.
Echo pretends she didn’t hear him, and wanders on downstream.

Editor’s note: Mr. Goggin, a genuine classicist in an earlier incarnation, sends this poem with the note, “Here’s some “art poetry” from thirty years ago. Reads aloud ok to me, but then, you had to be there.”