It's poetry in motion.

It Happens Like This
by 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.

From Lost River by James Tate, published by Sarabande Books, Inc. Copyright © 2003 by James Tate.

When I was in ninth grade I got really into poetry. I wrote something like five poems a day, bought Sylvia Plath anthologies, and was generally a dark and gloomy adolescent. Then I guess I joined theater and started goofing around with fellow thespians and making inappropriate jokes and didn't have time for poetry anymore. The point is, I miss my poetry days. But I'm trying to bring them back. A friend of mine introduced me to James Tate and I think he's just fanatstic. His writing is so surreal and sad and funny and winsome and makes me feel all introspective and melancholy and alone when I read them. Good rainy day/by yourself/time to stare out the window and ponder kind of reading. I couldn't pick a favorite, but I like this one a lot. Is there a better feeling than walking out of the public library with your arm full of smelly old books and knowing that you get to read them all?