Cubans began to move to Key West during the Ten Years’ War…bringing their chickens with them. (nationssouthernmostpoint.blogspot.com)
Even this early on a Sunday morning
there is a line snaking round the corner from Ana’s,
where the bitter coffee, thick as mud,
served in doll sized tea cups
and breakfast sandwiches called The Hangover and Cuban Especial
are the main tourist attractions.
I find a stripe of shade where we can wait
for the rest of our order
and settle in.
A group of sunburned 20 somethings approaches,
mostly subdued after a night of partying,
their flip flop steps splat the porch floor
before they pile onto the benches.
The mom and dad on the other side of us,
already weary from vacationing,
encourage their children to eat
warning that if they don’t,
they’ll be hungry when they get to the beach.
Some diners, likely locals,
shift and bob,
while waiting for their orders
ready to bolt
and enjoy their sandwiches at home.
When I am just about bored
I spy the feathered family approach,
a soft parade of baby chicks, soldiers
aligned single file, pickets on a fence,
some more surefooted than others
padding down the slats of the porch floor
past the indifferent diners,
their mother strutting
as if they owned the place
which they sort of do.
It doesn’t surprise me to see them here,
mother hen and chicks, awakened like us,
by the crowing and cawing in the wee hours of the morning,
through dawn and beyond,
living their enchanted lives.
Some say these immigrant chicks,
descendants of Cuba,
have overstayed their welcome,
invading the town, disturbing the peace,
polluting the streets.
Photo snapping tourists encourage the flocks
tossing crumbs to traffic snarls
for throngs across Duval Street.
To others, these beloved gypsy chickens,
their flamboyant plumage and tetrachromatic eyes
emblazoned in worshipful variety
on t shirts, hats, and magnets, menus and mugs
deserve our protection and celebration.
When Hurricane Irma approached
a good samaritan evacuated hundreds of chickens,
wrapping them in newsprint bundles, red beaks protruding,
and shuttled them to higher ground.
Paterson Literary Review
Issue 48, 2020
Elise Chadwick 