patrick friesen at times change
pausing in the doorway
of the blues bar, 
stood still by wellspring sound. 
bass pulls you in,
sits you down,
buys you a drink
from the blonde waitress
palefaced in yellow stageglow
that mimics 
the streetlights outside,
as though city light
must have a source
and here it is.  
your words had a source
and here you are,
a second-dimension ghost
smiling faint
by the window.
you watch a train pass,
same one that carried you off
to vancouver.
music for a moment
sustained 
as you recall
the acoustics 
of union station.