It was a dream.  It had to be, muddled and confused.  The nightclub was packed but the canary, a platinum blonde in glittering sequins, was singing just for me.  Then some stubby guy in a brush cut and dark glasses slipped me a mickey and I was out for the count.

     When I awoke I was on the floor of her dressing room and dead to the world, she was lying next to me.

     Do you believe in second chances?

     Dreams that are like some B-movie noir second bills?

     Now I'm in my own bed, under my own blankets, alone.

     Alone except for my canary, Ginger, the kind with feathers not sequins, singing just for me from her gilded cage.  My little yellow bird like the song goes.  A knock at the door interrupts rudely. 

     Ginger stops singing.  I throw back the covers, get up and answer the knock.  It's Miss Glitter Gown, alive as ever, with Mr. Mickey Finn, her jealous boyfriend standing next to her.  I act quickly.  I pop the guy on his glass jaw and call the cops.

     Now I have two canaries.

     One cage.

     And one cozy bed.