The Hoofs

Listening for the hoofs of the rescue party Waiting for some ghost pony to glide into Berkley With an old fishbowl. Full of tear trap strapped to it's ghost saddle It moves slow like an exercise bike on an airport walkway Yeah, something that wouldn't smell like ground ants or glossy magazine cologne But a wet street after light late summer rain a wooden match just lit Or something new in the green. Subject of a landscape painting Or something new in the foreground. In a poster of some Asian mountains That says patience in funky italics