The old man in my head who parcels out my dreams
came up with a good one the other night.
I was with my highschool basketball team
and we were losing — losing big.
The coach sometimes let us poor players
come into a game that we were sure to win
or sure to lose.
“Get in there, Russ — center forward.
See what you can do”.
Unexpectedly, I turned into a star —
droppimg baskets in so fast we won the game.
I, who talents on the court were few
amazed my coach — amazed the crowd.
Amazed myself as well.
I woke up being cheered and feeling great.
The bedside clock read: “12:13”.
The dream seemed more appropiate for a teen —
yet I held that distinction
three quarters of a century past.
And who am I to judge the mystery of the one
who parcels out my dreams?