Benjamin Franklin

A Poem by Charles Martin

At the day’s end, his earnest introspection
Yields up a single Self, no more, which he
Guides gently toward improvement, not perfection.
Perfection matters to the Deity
That Franklin has improved appreciably
Already, by removing from His hands
The lightning bolts shed with malicious glee
On those (and those not) heeding His commands.
The Self unfinished, Franklin understands,
May be improved upon but not perfected.
(Perfection would just irritate his neighbors.)
Princes still scowl as Liberty expands;
The man-made Self at risk must be protected,
And so, the Printer turns back to his labors.

Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790), Joseph Siffred Duplessis, 1778