A Dead Painter's Finishing Touch.

    Nolan painted a picture of a Goddess last weekend.
      A splendor of a painting,
    one of his best.
In sepia tones, she sat staring long at something slightly out of
        frame.
Nothing to wear but a tiny, white tank-top.
  She posed, garnished with oceans of opal hair cascading in
        waves.
Clouded in smoke, she animates the particles about her lovely face.

    I told him she looked great and indeed,
                yes she did,
                but Nolan stood troubled;
            said she wasn't finished.
        After what seemed like days of indecision, he lifted
                    the painting above his bowing head,
                        Tore her into eight pretty pieces.
                        He released each piece,
                        One at a time until they all
wavered back to meet his hard-wood floors,
      without so much as a break in the sound of this undefined
                                    moment.
        He said, "All done," then shook my hand as if I was a man
            and jumped off his balcony in a hurry; abandoned his
                feathers and brushes.
                    
                    Nolan landed on his toes four stories
    below, lit up a cigarette in the midst of a storm and walked
            naked,
in his socks,
            to the city's dryest bar
                                  crying.
                                    
                                  But, you would never know it.