The Hoofs

The Hoofs

Listenning for the hoofs of the rescue party
Waiting for some ghost pony
To glide into Berkeley
With an old fish bowl for a tear trap
Strapped to its ghost saddle
It moves slow like an excercise bike
On an airport walkway
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 a funky Italics