The man in the tangerine cloak pulls on his beard

and it lengthens, considerably. His hands, Reba scrawls

on a cocktail napkin, slipping it under my glass

so the ink goes bloody. “What?” This time she whispers,

and I look: 2 cardinals where fingers would be,

one flexing its carmine wings, the other pecking the head

of a burning butt dead in an amber glass ashtray.

“Imagine,” coos Reba, “those wings around you!”

I say, “you’re so assailable when you’re drunk.”