Here we are playing cards with oak leaves, trumping dead veins with gummy bears, while the neighbor is screaming about his breakdancing tomatoes. I tell him to calm down, have a sip of motor oil. He, a kumquat, refrains, lipless. Were we fruit flies, we would be salacious and confused, juggling the taste of the helpless man before us with the strong meat of spinning nightshades. We are wingless. We are rooted to the earth, waiting to die and be held by men far more discerning than ourselves, men with thirsts for economics and fresh kiwi. I roll our neighbor home and return to the porch. We smoke our rolled newspapers and argue pots and blinds.