This was where we passed through on the way to leafy, unreal Connecticut.
Hell, parts of it seemed, in the bad ’80s: whole blocks levelled; and we nibbled
Edam cheese in the back seat as Dad pushed down the automatic locking, and
Broke through amber lights so as never to stop, where pirates in wheel chairs
Rolled manically to the traffic lights, muddying the wind screen with dirty cloths.
On arrival, half an hour from The Bronx, Darien seemed a different country.
No one of other colours; big houses among the trees they’d stolen from the howling city.
Xanadu? Reagan’s paradise, of private roads and non-Jewish country clubs. Many wasps. Very few Irish.