Classic Poem

Malachite of tower and dome,
clatter of sabots, creaks of wheels,
neighs of horses headed home
from a market where smoked eels

glimmer in the October sun.
As merchants hawk their sundry wares
an English poet, squire John Donne,
stands by a basket full of pears.

Clad in a purple gown, a tart
straight out of Caravaggio
offers smiles for the sake of art,
and rubenesquely curtsies low.

She is the virgin mother of Christ,
albeit in one timeless pose.
Pious, but easily enticed,
will he kneel to take off her clothes?