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?

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