The Armchairs I Liked to Wear in My Sleep
The armchairs I liked to wear in my sleep
to pretend I was a grownup
must have seemed childish, at that time.
I dreamed they were
no different than a folding chair of my father's,
and also mom says
she likes to work on the chair under the biceps.
A bundle of dreams is a gift
but mine just took up space
that could have been used to write instead,
at the entrance to the hair of the vertebrae.
There are four open walls that don't like me
because my head is a ram's rope.
The sleepers could look inside
and see ready-made sheets on the old side of the poet,
as beds say.
I bow to the sidewalk between the folds of vocal chords.
I'm a monster: my hands are drawn like flowers
and my heart has bad breath so easily.
Today I'm holding a bench
on which a newspaper seller
protrudes from a centavo's mane.
He's carved in white,
but on Sunday he'll disappear
like writers do.
Poets are saints
and, since ceilings are a thing of the past,
they think that the stars singing next to them
are feathers they can pet:
poets could really do so, even if the stars are not outside of them.
Copyright 2024 by Angelo Colella
Angelo ‘NGE’ Colella was born in Italy where he still lives. He writes prose and poetry in Italian and English and also makes collages, asemic writing and DADA objects. Some of his works have appeared on Uut Poetry, Utsanga, The Ekphrastic Review, Il Cucchiaio nell’Orecchio, Il Mirino, Multiperso, Blogorilla, Word For/Word, Otoliths, La Morte per Acqua, and 22 Pensieri.
30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review
