Often Echo sprawls along my desk,
today atop Keats' Grecian Urn,
her paws like the white gloves
of any scholar.
Her ears perk up when I quote
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty."
But the rasp of my wife's slippers
come into view, and she leaps
to the floor to lead my wife
towards her bowl. "Miao",
she repeats, "Miao"
as if it were her mantra.
At dusk Echo sprints up
and down the stairs,
as if a firecracker were tied
to her tail. "Therapy"
would help," I advise.
Finally each night Echo
eludes the ghosts
in our house and jumps to my wife's
lap, where a soft blanket
is spread. "I'm jealous.
Why doesn't she come to me?" I ask.
"Loyalty," my wife purrs.
|