In the apartment, I see three of them,

pencil figures, candlestick

shadows, lips pulled back,

the eternal smile of knowing.

They dance in a living room

of lottery tickets and x-ray scans

left by parents with empty arms

limp as rigging rope,

They laugh them all off. High birdfeeder

laughs, fingers emerging in a blur.

They feel feathered, unburdened

by the touch of minutes or seconds.

I ask for the price as a simple word.

But words are blank spaces,

meat hooks to trap time.

They have names -

rippling action verbs

that drown headfirst in my mouth.

All I can do is smile,

focus on the redhead in the fox-colored sweater,

reversed feet like a duck and push the question -

"Will I know what I have done?"

They become a slang opera,

where singing turns to blame to laughing:

"Throw your life on the floor,

pull the gears from your spirit,

drink the gas from your car, forget

the night, its hush across stucco.

Then you will know there is no difference

between fate and fortune."

C.L. Liedekev is a confirmed poet who lives in Conshohocken, PA, with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in a Southern chunk of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, MacQueen's, Hare’s Paw, River Heron Review, amongst others. His poem, “November Snow. Philadelphia Children’s Hospital” is a finalist for 2021 Best of the Net.