I woke this morning

with a raspy, sore throat.

No Wonder!

Last night I played

a few games of

pick-up-full-court-basketball,

shirts and skins.

With five minutes to go,

in the winner-take-all third game,

I blocked a guys shot.

He was going for a dunk,

launching from the foul-line,

floating up to the basket,

his arm stretching above the rim.

But I cut in from the corner,

leaped and swatted the ball from his hand.

Later in the game, though,

he got his revenge,

picking my right side pocket,

(I’ve been blind in my right eye since birth),

and as he made his pivot to the basket,

lightning fast,

his elbows flashing,

he clocked me right in my neck.

Scotty

warned me off the guy

as I lay on the parquet,

gasping to get air past

my blocked windpipe to my lungs.

Scotty said,

“Look, Kenny.

“He’s really a nice guy,

but he’s got his pride.

So once he’s air-born,

just let him fly!”

Hell!

How was I to know

who the guy was?

This was my dream, not his!!

But, I guess, even in dreams,

this old white guy’s

got to be realistic .

(I’m pushing 75 with a short handle broom,

after all!)

So,

I’ll temper my dreaming

with reality,

hence-forth.

Its won’t be so tough

to get a breath

come morning.