POEM: Red

Red in the morning, sailors take warning, but what if it is red all the time if eyes are not bloodshot, but if the color of the air were red, if the red was inhaled deep into your lungs. What then?
Waiting for the swelling to subside, this is what the day is for. Anger as red, passion as red. Blood is red because of these things. As signs go, red is a good one. As a sign of infection, it sends a clear warning.
Sailors aren’t the only ones who need to be warned though. We sway over swells of ancient seas, where is the courage to examine these? Who put those away and why can’t I find it? Life requires Dramamine.
Red as a balloon speaks of childhood. The pimples of teen-hood too. The red of your tongue that can savor everything also speaks to me of love, which is also red. A dentist or doctor who cannot discern red
Is a liability to his craft. The red of day break and sunset vary slightly. There is a way to tell the difference you must look into its eyes and see how much softer the light in the evening is.
The red is less swollen, but that doesn’t mean it is not a warning just the same. Sundown is just light that drains over the horizon, dripping into the dreams you eventually have at night –
Dusk is the great hush that ends all the commotion.