When the Movement Loses Sight

The waiting room is not
entirely uninviting.
When the obnoxious
atmospheric music
gets too be too much
the stereo's within arm's reach
and easily turned down
or in my case, off.
It's clear that the bathroom's
cleaned once a week
whether it needs it or not
and there's a can
of aerosol air freshener in there.
Plush pillows line the couch
and the lighting's just right
for whatever book's been riding
in the back pocket of my jeans.

But the thing I can't stand is the sign:
"Behind every successful woman is herself."

And it's not that I don't think
that there are slick women out there.
Hell, I've been trumped by a handful
that could take over the world
one life at a time if they'd only apply themselves better.
Their combined force is too frightening to fathom.
It's that even the worst of the chauvinist pigs--
the Bukowskis, the Hemingways, even the
shock-jock Sterns-- can admit that they were
only alive and well and had something to write home about
because of the undeserved love of some
gracious woman too strong to be defeated by their flaws.
So why then, I ask, do the over-liberated feminists
choose not to go the same humble route
by making and hanging signs such as this one?
It's the equivalent of saying "Not bad, for a girl."
Are the goose and the gander no longer equal?
Last time I checked that's what they wanted.
Somewhere along the way it went sour.

So I sit and I stew and read my damn book
and wait forty-five minutes to be beautifully reminded
yet again that like most men far greater than myself
I'll always be wrong when the fairer sex is concerned.
As long as we know and accept this fact
the world won't slip off its axis.

"Yes, dear. I'm coming."