Whitehead Street as the sun comes up.
I find it weird that people put their names on their mailboxes. In a land paralyzed by fear of absolutely anything and everything I suppose it's the mark of brash self assurance to tell the world who lives here but the purpose of the name tag escapes me.
WPA! Here comes Public Works to straighten out the mess. Some days when I am sick of dispatching I quite fancy a pay cut and a chance to drive the Zamboni.
I really like the look of the man Post Office, the place that delivers mail all the way to Nay Point at Mile Marker 15. It's one of those government buildings that look right, a symbol of solidity in the sifting sands of modern life. Nothing seems secure in a world littered with debt, diminishing resources and weird weather, but the Post Office is still delivering mail on Saturdays in all weathers. I wonder how long private corporations would last if they were required by Congress to set aside pension payments for the next 75 years. What they actually do is raid their pension funds to meet current expenses. Oh well, better to blame the Post Office for failing.
The post office parking lot is home to the city's largest collection of free range chickens. If you want to see a real live genuine Key West rooster head to the post office on Whitehead Street.