Simon

She’s been to Mass, a silken corn, hair in a golden cap, struggling to think, struck like a Grecian urn, I look at the sink, her grace like stance, wild without thorns, a modern day iconoclast, shuddering to trick, what I've discerned, she asks for more drink, if I can say overlaps, churns, laugh’s like a black cat, gliding at the ice rink, her skirts flare, I hear the glass clink, where’s the next pass, a café’ sojourn, is this love at last, as she twirls ?