Bastards

I had a dream last night a poet said “I know just what to do with your writing…”
and that’s where the memory fades.
Mysteries are never easy
Dreams are never answers, but seeds.
Too often I wake from sleep’s marathon
unsure of the miles I’ve tracked
my back aches, my knees, my heart
Why is the mind such a woman? Just tell me what you want!
Tell me, alley cat, where you go at night
the sex, the trash, the lavender
reeks in your fur
and I’m left in the morning
reeling, pacing, spent
from all those bastards you bring home
in your belly
that never keep you full.