Karen

I wish I were on Bourbon Street right now, under a full moon. I’d be on my way to a gentlemen’s club, a strip joint to be more to the point.  I’d find a girl there and I’d pretend she cared. I’d call her Karen and pretend she cared.  Just like a girl so long ago. A girl named Karen, and I thought she cared. I wouldn’t make her dance, just sit and talk. Talk about dreams and dreams, hopes and dreams.  Hope is a sort of dream, and it’s real until you wake up. I dreamed about her, but the more real she became, the more I shook myself awake.  I let the dream just float away.  Now, some days, some nights, I dream about Karen, but it’s no longer a dream, no longer a hope, but just a memory. A memory of a dream