There Is a Park in Central London

Thoughts about the following poem (and most poems I write)
I have no idea, no agenda, not sure why i even write these down.
I wonder if there are many other poets of the same mindset when they write?

There Is a Park in Central London

that reminds me
of sliced potatoes
not the main park,
a small one

and not diced or chopped,
only sliced long ways
and stacked
biggest on bottom

like I do
when I chop and boil
and fry them with slices
of andouille sausage

I have only
been there once
and passed by
once more
in a black cab
on a day my wife
wasn’t feeling well.

Not sure if
it’s the playground
some rocks or hills
or the pasty patrons
only when I slice potatoes
I think of
a park in central London.