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