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Connection is on my mind. It’s a loose theme for the Nevermores this year. I’ve been making mental notes anytime I am surprised by a connection.

Yesterday, I was stopped in the middle of the street during an early morning dog-walk by a neighbor. While always cordial, our vastly different political leanings limit our contact. But that morning, she rolled down her window exuding joy to exclaim in wonder that we are both now grammas. Again, this is before 7am. Before the sun has risen. In the middle of a street. Me holding two leashes and one bag of dog poop. There it is. Connection.

Growing up, my parents reminded us regularly: what affects one of us affects all of us. From worrying about reputations or the ripple effect of not leaving a note to let others know where we were, I came to understand connection as caring.

Last Sunday, I mused about unknown connections:

power red

 

vinyl floor bore years of scuff

windowless space tired of its multi-purpose

 

cartooned commandments and slow clocks

waited with me avoiding eye contact

that might connect us to one another

only the stressed tech talking out loud to no one

like a lonely senior dying to talk        to anyone

 

three of us giving up

platelets, plasma, pumped and packaged

uniting life to new life

and me, resentful of the wait

tick-tock

tap-tap-click two pregnancies no contact

with hypodermic lives

check my arms, I’m clean

here to give power red, a two-fer

connected by plastic tubes

and six degrees of separation

 

once you connect to Kevin Bacon

you’re connected to everyone else

images courtesy of Pixaby
poem ©draft, Patricia J. Franz

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