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.

He didn't look like much—a fraying grey suit that had seen better decades and shoes with soles so thin he could tell you the denomination of a coin just by stepping on it. But when he moved, the city seemed to hold its breath.

As the kid walked away, the rhythm started up again—a syncopated heartbeat echoing off the brick walls, a reminder that as long as Mr. Bojangles was moving, the soul of the city was still very much alive.

"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."

"Son," he said, clicking his heels together one last time, "most people spend their lives trying to get somewhere. Me? I’ve already been everywhere. Now, I just dance so I don't forget the music."

Mr Bojangles Here

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.

He didn't look like much—a fraying grey suit that had seen better decades and shoes with soles so thin he could tell you the denomination of a coin just by stepping on it. But when he moved, the city seemed to hold its breath. Mr Bojangles

As the kid walked away, the rhythm started up again—a syncopated heartbeat echoing off the brick walls, a reminder that as long as Mr. Bojangles was moving, the soul of the city was still very much alive. The streetlights in the French Quarter didn't so

"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." Bojangles took his place on a rusted milk crate

"Son," he said, clicking his heels together one last time, "most people spend their lives trying to get somewhere. Me? I’ve already been everywhere. Now, I just dance so I don't forget the music."