Dear God (dess) send me the grace of a perfectly average man,

overweight, rather short, fond of cereal and sliced ham.

Send me the confidence of the inadequate and over-valued,

Paid for all of his thirty-nine hours,

Praised for the sixteen hours scraped away at home,

and assumed the next sixteen spent watching the woman work,

On and on, while he watches telly

And she raises the kids.

Send me the honest bewilderment of a man recently divorced,

By the woman, on average, twelve years in, fifty years old and kids still to raise

Can you really be that bad, that useless,

For her to make a rational decision to lose your wage and raise the kids

Alone and poor,

rather than spend the time and emotion on you as well.

Lady, send me the gob-smacking arrogance of the middle aged man,

who sits down at the table and says to the woman on his right,

“Let’s talk about me!”