It was Ash Wednesday,
and the sky was grey.
It had been 193 years since
things went grey for
Napoleon, and the plot to
house him here abruptly
ended. He died on St. Helena,
though the Governor's family,
with due Southern Hospitality,
watched faithfully from the cupola
for his ship soaring in from
the Gulf. New Orleans had only been
under American occupation for a
decade, after all, and Napoleon had
already escaped and rallied once.

As I sat on the stoop
on Chartres, looking across
St. Louis at the Napoleon House,
the bar was open on the
first floor. Oak trees grew
through the courtyard, and
curved staircases framed
well-dressed waiters carrying
trays of Pimm's and Mint Juleps.

As I began drawing, a young
woman alighted and sat within
the drawing, on the stoop
in the bottom left corner.
I thought "what luck!", but before
I could start to discreetly add
her curvature to the scene, she,
as though sensing my thoughts,
flew away like a crane,
silent and slow.