Madonna of the Flea market .

I am an avid student of art and to Janson I did turn
As I sat on tilting bench watching people at a run
Here they do squabble like hens after grain
There they do dabble like turkeys in the rain
Out from barn like rack she wander eyes a blur
As if she did ponder, and what is there for her but thought?
In bags on arms her life she wrought ,and at her sleeve and in her buggy
A tow headed child with nor doll or ribbons to mark them skirts
Yet lacking the means to state them other, inside this buggy the little one lay
Around his head a thing light I say ,shone
And on his lips a smile born of heavens and eyes seeking faith
While the other who walked along seemed doomed to fate
With dragging feet and dirty face he tottered behind skirt
Smacking him round face with each turn ,to the dirt
And he goes along a little more before he falls once again
and from the look in his eyes id say he's not hers but the child of a friend
she ,the skirt looks back all but once and sees the child laying there in the dirt
of course up skirt and with sleeve in hand wipes his face until ruddy and tears he ran
now I, still in Janson pages do flip until I pass a section no more than a glip
but oh, on these pages so few yet so much , none other than said skirt with said children on earth
Madonna the pages cry and I eyes cry the same as I watch this woman with children down the lane
Madonna of the rocks of the meadows and plains Madonna of Venice ,of Athens and thanes
And here before me with mine own eyes do I see none other than Madonna at the Market she be.
Mouth agape I watch as she go and flip no more pages ,I think you should know
That in all my years and in all my lives there's nothing more frightful than art in real life.