Spats

On a night with pitch-perfect moonlight,
The dark contrasts a rain-bright street,
Walking Otis is like a Beale Street sight,
A jazz man, spat’s flash white on dancing feet.

As musicians age through out the years,
Otis’s nose, like his spats, turn white…
Moving from Jazz to the blues; to the tears,
Disappearing into history’s silent night.