No Poem

I read my poem over again and threw it away

In the park where the elms brood.

The old man who spears old papers on a spit

And tucks them into his brown gunny-sack,

Will make an end of it.

Then, after he has stood

Awhile, he will go. off, shouldering his brown

Bag, and shuffle out of sight;

A brown leaf drifting into the gray twilight

That the bushes make about him, folding down-

A better poem than I can hope to write.