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.