Donatello

Two guttering candles:
Donatello balances their light
in the outstretched palms of a madonna;
finished for the night he
knots his thick hands before his face
and leans against a wall.

His apprentices sleep
in flea-infested straw;
dull chisels gather an ooze
of shadows; mallets
rest on square heads….
Donatello grips one in his fist & lifts,
the only raw figure
in a room of stinkless Davids,
sinless Magdalenes.

Outside his shop a cat laps
a pool of blood; children rifle
the dead man’s purse for gold;
a bawd’s kiss flashes in moonlight
while rats leap from sill to sill.

Donatello roughs out a smile
using a tiny chisel like a quill;
his fingertips relax over an angel’s face,
and he yawns, knowing that his work is good.

This one seems to work. Jesse