Benjamin Schmitt

Wages of Struggle

As a kid sin seemed transcendent

a stolen carton of cigarettes

and a pile of Playboys altarpieces

in my hidden attic shrine

Then I grew up and read about

the corrupt politician

the internet scammer

quotidian cruelties of the hopelessly bored

And I realized all those harsh landscapes

dull farms

I was trying to escape

were the only places that offered peace

White fields kissed

white skies in winter trenches

a barren tree held out skeletal arms

stuffing its face with handfuls of delicious wind

Happiness is twin to a darkness

birthed by pursuit

and comfort is nothing more

than the pillow’s suffocation

So grabbing my burden

I carried it to that cold dawn

always here but never promised

hurting my eyes with the joyful light of struggle

Benjamin Schmitt is the author of four books, most recently The Saints of Capitalism. His poems have appeared in Sojourners, Antioch Review, The Good Men Project, Hobart, Columbia Review, Spillway, and elsewhere. A co-founder of Pacifica Writers’ Workshop, he lives in Seattle with his wife and children.