I Hate This Poem

I hate this poem. I wrote this poem, it is my work but I don’t like this poem, I wrote this as I watched an old man sitting on a park bench, reading, he would read a few lines then look up to stare out at the world, then he would drop his eyes to read a few more lines; of what I think was poetry, again he would stare out at the world. Yes, it must have been poetry- good poetry, at least to this man. When he finished reading and closed the book he sat there with a soft, sad face, his eyes were full of tears and he just stared out… thinking of a lost love perhaps or a long-a-go memory. Maybe he was pondering the struggle of life; the quiet of death. I am only sure that he had read a perfect poem. To that man, on that day, he had read the perfect poem and the poem he felt, he made it his own, taken it to heart. But he is gone, never to read poetry on that park bench again, never will he read this poem my poem; that I hate.