listening 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.
and it moves slow like an exercise 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.