in Naples all the women are beautiful

when Olga was being difficult,
Picasso knew that
in Naples
all the women are beautiful
and everything is easy.
in Paris, his rose period finally came
when it climbed a steep hill,
and puffed past a rundown windmill.
his sketchbook and cheap rent
both looked down to the famous nomadic river,
saw a passing barge,
and heard the future tie up softly at a landing.
then Matisse finally sold something
to a dealer,
who sold it to a German collector
standing on a street corner
near the Agile Rabbit,
but his wife wasn't so sure.
jugglers, acrobats, brothels, and boozers
stayed awake until four
painting posters, posing,
erasing lines drawn in the sand,
looking for their gypsy connections,
warming themselves within their fiery imaginations.
the genteel Russian girls
danced in the opera,
painted faces smelling of vodka and caviar.
the post-Impressionists
went searching for Cezanne,
peeking under the vermillion trees
where nude women bathed,
their wet hair falling in loose strands of scarlet yellow.
cheap wine and riotous song splashed below the breaking clouds,
and a strong urge for a new day,

a romance day,
which could come at any hour,
left the city breathless.