No Poem / Maurice Lesemann

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.