Don’t ask them
if they’re telling the truth.
They will always answer,
“Of course,” and they might be,
but really,
you shouldn’t trust them.

Don’t try to bother them
for their life stories
because chances are good
that they don’t even know
how they got started.

If you’re attracted to their metaphors
try not to show it too much,
because they’re notorious
for pressing any small advantage
and then, next thing you know,
they’ll be moving in
and staying
for a long time,

and that’s damnably inconvenient —
because as mentioned earlier,
they are not assuredly honest.
You may find yourself missing things:
settled opinions, firm perspectives,
a sense of security,
the good silver.  (Did I mention
how hungry they are, how they steal
to pay for their appetites?)

The poems, you see, are brats
born to raise hell, diddle and screw
around.  Sure, some of them,
the love poems especially,
are downright adorable — but beware:

the love poems are the worst. 
Love one of them too much,
put your trust in their preternatural beauty,
confuse that loveliness for truth (regardless
of what Emily had to say about that)
and you could end up letting them
do your work for you when you ought to be
speaking for yourself.

I think we’ve covered the critical stuff:
untrustworthy, cynical, plastic pretty
little monsters, blah blah blah…

and hell,
we haven’t even talked about the poets yet.