Mystery flag fluttering over a face
in a bar with no open window
or ceiling fan yet there it is stretched out
over someone, you know you can see it
but you keep staring at that face
trying to ignore the flag,
how it has no apparent color
in the dim light but you know the color
without seeing it, the dulled crimson,
the carmine warning now fully extended
in a wind blowing you toward it
from offstage cold front, now gale, 
not quite hurricane yet but getting there,
you’ve always been a sucker for the red
snapping in rhythm to irresistible forces,
you’ve never been an immovable object 
no matter how hard you try and try, 
the red flag over your own head a testimonial
to the danger you have learned to cultivate
when it presents itself and now
as you rise from your seat to go to the bar
you’ve got the wind at your back and 
all your pirate cells are singing.