Tennis Once I found a broken-winged mocking bird beneath our bed when I was awakened too early by someone I knew only slightly, calling to ask if I'd like to play tennis before the day grew too hot. I stood there naked saying sure before I thought about it, looking over with yearning at my sleep-swollen wife, hearing a small puffing thud from underneath our bed: This injured bird was mocking the flaccid sound of human sleep-breathing as it threw itself against our mattress, relentlessly attacking the seams and cotton batting. My wife slept on while I pushed a broom under there, trying to make the bird come out where I might catch it. And what would I do when I caught it, what then? Set it free? Throw it up into the air and watch it fall? So after awhile I just left it under there--I was afraid I would wake my wife with my racket; I knew the fierce bird would probably die soon anyway; and I reminded myself that my wife was better with wild birds than I was. She was better with her hands, just better at touching things. Her naked body on the bed there almost distracted me as I pulled on my whites, but then I heard my opponent at the door. We warmed up quickly and played with fierce enthusiasm. Then we rested and played some more. The day was so hot we lost track of the hour, we wore ourselves thin with running. By the time I got home my children were all grown up, my wife had packed and moved out, taken what was hers, remarried and moved away. She hadn't left a note. The TV was blaring on the same talk show as usual, but everything else in the entire house was gone.