Perfection is a Pointless Canvas...

             His impeccable desk had a uniform shine.

But the window had a crack that everyone saw.

“Why don’t you fix that, John; the rest is

So perfect?” 

                            “Oh, the window? Ha!

   Look down. Did you spot how clean

The shoe cart and the tile flooring is?”

“Yes.” 

                 “Did you smell orange-oil,

And feel your chair's dust-free skin?”

“I did.” 

                  “So you also scanned my

      close-shaven face? My oiled hair?

    with all its ordered strands in place—”

“John! It’s a nice room, and you're very well-kept.

                   All of it, but that crack.”

“Well, for years I kept this room

Perfect. Not one speck, one flaw.

And business came, and business

                Went; nobody really saw.

           Then I punched the quiet glass.

        It chirped and split. 

Once people saw that vein,

    Like an angry bolt though invisible clear,

       swallowing the blankness across that pane,

               Only then, they looked for a pattern of flaws.

                    And noticed... straight lines and polish instead.

                        And then—only then—did my clients and friends

                               give the window their pity and the rest their applause.”