Jazzman

There was a man standing
in front of me,
a tall lanky black man,
at least fifty.
I would have kept walking,
but he was looking
right at my face, smiling.

I nodded a hello,
and he lifted a long, thin,
arthritic finger and pointed
at me. He squinted a bit,
and with a smirk, said in
a thick N'Orleans accent,
"You look like a blues man."

Confused, I offered the only
response that seemed rational
and true,
"You look like a jazz man, yourself."

He grinned. "My brother,"
he whispered, and hitting
me on the shoulder, shambled
on his way.