Free from you at last. Where once your sandals
fit my feet in random patterned fever;
now I walk the street without love handles,
dangling in extremes — an ex-believer.
Your vortex is your vulva (which you know
and play upon to bend the wills of men)
For how else could you coldly overthrow
their reason and good judgement yet again?
Our highway was all verse with no refrains;
despite the crazy tantra of the ride.
And now that I have cut your tarnished chains
this liberation has a darker side.
For though I’m footloose now and fancy-free,
My lovedoor’s locked. I can’t recall the key.
© Alan Morrison, 2013