"Just a phase I'm going through",
I mutter with erudite glibness,
Affording all the comfort of a marble seat.
This sanctimonious parent-proxy,
Simmering in licentious triteness,
Teases the conscience to nauseous dismissal,
Sheds the skin, exposing tender rawness.
The salt remains to be applied,
The salt that would see no sweat or toil.

I have self-imposed obligations,
Though none to myself,
That I must pursue the elusive treadmill
To offer my lemming-spirit for breaking,
And all to soften the unheard heaviness
Of the habitual monthly colloquy.
This "all" is much and yet not all.
Perhaps the ritual of punctilious indulgence
Will soon deliver me from dead-end contentment
To miserable prosperity and acquiescence
When my phase is over.