One night, a young musician stopped to watch. The kid had a guitar slung over his shoulder and eyes full of ambition. He watched the old man’s weathered face—a map of every mile walked and every drink shared.
The streetlights in the French Quarter didn't so much light the way as they did highlight the humidity, casting a hazy glow over the cracked pavement. Near the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann, a man known only as Mr. Bojangles took his place on a rusted milk crate. Mr Bojangles
"Why do you still do it?" the kid asked after Bojangles finished a particularly grueling routine that left him breathless. "Your knees are shot, and the hat's nearly empty." One night, a young musician stopped to watch