image from fineartamerica.com
poem submitted to "Zoltar Speaks" poetry contest, Robert James Liguori, sponsor, June 6, 2026
Zoltar moved in quietly, carried up the stairs by no one I remember seeing. At night, his gears murmured through the thin apartment wall~ a soft metallic prayer to whatever listens in the dark. Occasionally, I heard his cards shuffle themselves~ paper whispering secrets it should not know. Sometimes his lights flickered under my doorframe, as if he’s pacing, as if he’s thinking. One night, he slid a fortune under my door: The visitor arriving tomorrow died twelve years ago. Another one follows: Your shadow will leave you before the week ends. At dawn, the hallway smelt of burnt incense and cold metal. His lights flickered wildly, as if he’s arguing with something I cannot see. Then a final card appeared~ edges singed, letters warped: Do not open the door when you hear your own voice.
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