Pink is misunderstood but not red. Red isn't polite. Red is a toddler running into the street, an exit sign, a wagon. The fire in the laundry room you grabbed the baby and saved us from. The Thanksgiving table you always set with dozens of tiny plastic apples. No, not plastic. Heavier. Where did you get them? Red is a state. A winter hat. The color of a man with the wrong kind of bottle. Do not think that red is a drink. Red is the drink you think you drink that drinks you up the more you drink. Pink knows how to wait. Red is the ketchup blood in the Halloween house that you made in the garage. The skeletons hanging from the ceiling, a cooler full of leaves. The American flag you hung instead that year you decided we have had enough blood. You and I both look good in red. A color not raised, but wrought. The color of pointless conviction, a waiting room. That room in which you didn't want to wait. Red is the war that your father brought home unfortunately. The lizard body, the one with the tiny teeth.