I Hide my Craft

by Michael Lee Johnson

I hide my craft
under the armor
of the armadillo —
tucked beneath its armpit,
hovering near its stomach
with insects buzzing noon
day sun issues and indigestion —
away from the editors
punitive critics,
and pay on demand
print money mongrels.

Cold bacon and lard
under the pages
between poems
and the words
stick I write
everything
with a scent or odor.

I look up at the sky
and giggle my nerves
like gold chains
waiting for the next
editor to tell me
my mind doesn’t work,
flow with my words quite right.

I count them one by one
those for me on one side;
those against me on the other.
I hide my craft under the armor
of the armadillo.