Monday, March 31, 2014

When did they get rid of the iron?

Do Not Pass Go,

do not collect two-hundred dollars, it’s jail
for you my friend, just down the street
from Oriental Avenue where a decent
bird’s nest soup can still be found if you know
where to look, that shabby stretch of robin’s

egg blue in the shadow of the slammer
where I’ll come visit unlike the top hat and 
battleship.  Sidle on over to the
open fridge for some candid advice,

an enumeration of their treacheries
while you buy us a beer and refill my plate
with shrimp empanadas.  Did I happen

to mention your choice of the thimble
is commendable, a token of protection
against pricks and unscrupulous wheeler

dealers up and down St. Charles Place, spiky 
caveats of confidence men buried
in the fine print along the Reading Railroad line. 

Maybe I’m just a broken down old boot
but troubles afoot once you pass Free Parking.  
The wheel barrow with her insipid small

talk, those close set eyes, has designs on  
autumnal Kentucky Avenue clear
out to leafy Marvin Gardens, our

old stomping ground, the deed to Ventnor
rounding out your meager portfolio
of utilities and Baltic Avenue. 

I’m prepared to offer you freedom in
a transaction sanctified by mutual
trust, sealed on little more than a handshake.
Forty dollars and my Get Out of Jail

Free card for your stake dividing my own 
Atlantic and Marvin Gardens, a stone’s throw
from my humble holdings on Boardwalk and
Park Place where you’ll never be a stranger,
at a rate reserved for my dearest friends. 

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