"The Question"

You always have to ask:
"Which kind of poem is this
going to be?" Will it be one
of those chubby, redfaced newborns,
lovely only to its mother, that you
have to cuddle appreciatively even
as it pees all over your new jacket?
Or is it more like a door-to-door
evangelist, passing out gaudy
brochures about the onrushing end,
wanting to pray for your soul
and collect a free-will offering
before moving off your porch
to inflict itself on your neighbor?
Or might it be an unexpected
flamenco dancer exploding
in a burst of color and motion
right in front of you and who
vanishes while you blink?
Or maybe a happy-eyed guy
who laughs, offers you a cold beer,
and tells you to put your feet up
on the coffee table right off?
Or is it this time one of those deep-sea
fish that dangle shiny bits of themselves
in front of their huge-toothed jaws
to draw you in?