After Don Giovanni
 
They meet once more –  an unrecorded tryst:
Betrayed Elvira, penitently pale;                  
Filial Anna, in her tragic veil;           
Ottavio, too faithful to desist.
The late Commendatore lifts his fist, 
Flashing his marble like a coat of mail,                    
And girls come swarming – one embodied wail,                    
With one intent: the burning of the List.
So Leporello, acting very meek,
Unrolls it: half a mile from east to west;
And pretty, plump Zerlina gives a shriek,
Hiding her blushes in Masetto’s breast –
Masetto, surly as he always is,
But never doubting that the baby’s his.

Ruth S. Baker

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Ruth S. Baker would be pleased to hear them