was ahead of his time, but he was seventy when he died, had a beard

like a white Persian cat devouring his considerable face. I bet he

didn't go willingly.

I bet he didn't say "Honey, would you hold my pen, it's my

turn

to die."  I bet someone had to pry the bedsheets from his hands. And

after

they wrote him into the ground, his beard went on growing, grew until

it

had arms and legs, a tail and teeth. I bet it prowls the cemetery

still, a huge and muscled

snow leopard, the old man's skeleton still caught in its

coat.

There's no telling if you'd ever see it and if you did, no guessing if

it might

tear you apart like a bedroom. Destiny can laugh all it wants about

chance,

but chance is on the floor about destiny. It's knocked over the table

with the candles and the goldfish. The carpet is ruined, the party is ruined,

the night is ruined,

it can never be cleaned,