Old age and limited maneuverability yellows the floor under my lemonade stand in the cellar. As a child, some unexpected adjustment to the pivot under my Skylectric rendered its new perch on the edge of the track, facing the wall, the open door where the butcher stood, the trepan opening of the chimney, the bricked-up window, nerve-racking. It never fell. I reached past it falling. Still life, like my own - feathers fail the birth of a plastic knife. Meanwhile, the bong squares all my veins before the county fair's pearly gates.