Ironbound/nearly free

You're talking with your friend and he says the name of someone you haven't met yet. The name intrigues you. Your memory files it away.  Ironbound. 




The cafes are not places to get coffee. They are places for men to go and play cards. I like this because it reminds me of somewhere else, but I know that it's not good- that this universe is closed off. Maybe my place is somewhere else.

Elm street is for the eyes. The trees and brick- the stillness. You look it up and read news about old crimes, mostly economic. 

And then this song, by Suzanne Vega, which is no good to listen to, but maybe to read:
In the ironbound section near Avenue L
where the Portuguese women come to see what you sell
the clouds so low the morning so slow
as the wires cut through the sky
The beams and bridges cut the light on the ground
into little triangles and the rails run round
through the rust and the heat
the light and sweet coffee color of her skin
Bound up in wire and fate
watching her walk him up to the gate
in front of the ironbound school yard.
Kids will grow like weeds on a fence
She says they look for the light they try to make sense.
They come up through the cracks
Like grass on the tracks
She touches him goodbye.
Steps off the curb and into the street
the blood and feathers near her feet
into the ironbound market
In the ironbound section near Avenue L
where the Portuguese women come to see what you sell
the clouds so low the morning so slow
as the wires cut through the sky
She stops at the stall
fingers the ring
opens her purse
feels a longing
away from the ironbound border
"Fancy poulty parts sold here.
Breasts and thighs and hearts.
Backs are cheap and wings are nearly free"
Nearly free