and i think of the connection . . .. . ... and

three stools of dog shit from the gravel drive
and a poem like one of those pie-eyed cobras
wakes from the small stones hissing first words;

and i think of my father
and i think of the connection
and i imagine what Freud would discover
and i imagine what the re-birther would mutter
and the up-turned magician of tarot
and the gypsy with one gold eye
teasing her fortune from innocent palms
and i think of the doorman
at the entrance beyond the five senses,

yes i'm scooping dog shit and thinking maybe
some connections, like holding a live wire
waist deep in the family pool, are better left un-plugged.