Denny Two

She breaks the pass, a silken form, hair in a golden clasp, struggling to think, struck like a Grecian urn, I look at the bar, her walk is a dance, wild without thorns, a modern-day iconoclast, shuddering to blink, at what's the score, she asks for a drink, what I say overlaps, churns, my laugh’s a black cat, gliding at the ice rink, her eyes flare, I wait for the clink, at the next chance, a café’ sojourn, it’s love at last, here comes the sun.