As a callow (but tanned!) youth on Mallorca, I once remained at a poetry recital on the beach until an hour of the night most unseemly. My father chided me upon my return with a familiar line. “When I was your age, my father would not allow me to go out of the house after midnight.”
“Your father’s curfew,” I replied, “seems hardly born of wisdom.”
At this, my padre exclaimed, “He was a far better father than the one you have, you rapscallion!”
There was a pause, and then gales of laughter swept our darkened home. And so, here in the sun-baked perdition of Phoenix, I have restricted myself with my own curfew. I watch tape, take notes, and look to improve on my play in the first match of our playoff series.
And I also write verse! For instance, take note of this recent stanza:
The Phoenix Suns’ frenetic play
Takes on an orange-tinted haze
And on the court, their tattooed ass
Brays and brays and brays.
Rudy foto by Teresa Roca Ramia.