They say the beignets at Café Du Monde
   are best at 9 a.m., so here I sit.
A cigarette-brushed face of a woman sends
   a glance my way, so I check my watch as an
   excuse to break that moment of discomfort.
Like hell I had anywhere to be.
I tucked my paper under my arm
   and left my seat short of the table.

I walked down to the quarter and
   sat next to a painter.
His who-do-you-think-you-are eyes
   put me in my place, so I left.

I sat on the sidewalk next to a palm
   reader's table.
"Aye boi, yewsa ever getcha pam read?"
A casually curved smiled played predecessor
   to a "No ma'am, can't say I have".
Her eyes craved I come forward, so I did.
   "Eets a thurdy dolla".
Since when did money making cloak
   itself in the cunning muse of curiosity?

I sat back down on the sidewalk, pulled
  out my notebook and pretended
  not to notice when people would walk by
  as if I am that painter and my brush is my
  rhetoric.
      I wonder if anyone noticed I was simply scribbling.

"Aye yea boi, yeesa really tank the answers yewsa seek
    are in that bouk 'ight there."
She let out of a bellowing laugh that shook all of her
   gaudy jewelry and beads.
"Ees that wascha really are worried 'bout?
Come ah here boi"
She leaned over and whispered in my ear,
   finally dropping her accent and said:

"La mort sourit sur vous"