It Happens Like This
James Tate

 I was outside St. Cecelia’s Rectory
 smoking a cigarette when a goat appeared beside me.
 It was mostly black and white, with a little reddish
 brown here and there. When I started to walk away,
 it followed. I was amused and delighted, but wondered
 what the laws were on this kind of thing. There’s
 a leash law for dogs, but what about goats? People
 smiled at me and admired the goat. “It’s not my goat,"
 I explained. “It’s the town’s goat. I’m just taking
 my turn caring for it.” “I didn’t know we had a goat,"
 one of them said. “I wonder when my turn is.” “Soon,"
 I said. “Be patient. Your time is coming.” The goat
 stayed by my side. It stopped when I stopped. It looked
 up at me and I stared into its eyes. I felt he knew
 everything essential about me. We walked on. A police-
 man on his beat looked us over. “That’s a mighty
 fine goat you got there," he said, stopping to admire.
 “It’s the town’s goat," I said. “His family goes back
 three-hundred years with us," I said, “from the beginning.”
 The officer leaned forward to touch him, then stopped
 and looked up at me. “Mind if I pat him?” he asked.
 “Touching this goat will change your life," I said.
 “It’s your decision.” He thought real hard for a minute,
 and then stood up and said, “What’s his name?” “He’s
 called the Prince of Peace," I said. “God! This town
 is like a fairy tale. Everywhere you turn there’s mystery
 and wonder. And I’m just a child playing cops and robbers
 forever. Please forgive me if I cry.” “We forgive you,
 Officer," I said. “And we understand why you, more than
 anybody, should never touch the Prince.” The goat and
 I walked on. It was getting dark and we were beginning
 to wonder where we would spend the night.