I'm in a Trader Joe's thinking
hey, at least I have more hair than Lebron James,
when I am startled by a tap
on my risky right shoulder.
It's my doctor,
just saying hi,
asking me what I am up to,
so I told him the truth.
Well, Doc,
I was just standing in the soap aisle
feeling proud of myself
for having more hair than Lebron.
You like basketball,
he says, with a question mark.
Yes, I say with another question mark,
and so he invites me to play on Tuesday with him and his mates.
I accept, but
immediately start thinking crazy shit,
like he knows I am unhealthy and out of shape
and he must feel bad for my sweaty, ugly mug.
Then, I start wondering
if it is appropriate to school your doctor
on the basketball court,
and what if he gets mad and gives me a rash or pink eye on purpose!
I am a neurotic, anxious
Looney Tune who should be in a looney bin,
but none of this matters, because come Tuesday,
we play and it is great.
I guess the lesson here is
don't turn the rocking chair over
and look for death until it happens,
also the doc's got game.