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Spadina Literary Review  —  edition 33 page 20


The Fool, I Play

by Keith Kennedy

Though harrowing,
I have worked enough
to have sticky spots of
dried sweat on my cheeks
and at my temples.
I am uncaged
and the lines of my face
run deep with toil.

I am left, with heavy breathing,
to wonder where has my reward
been downward cast that I
cannot find it?
Has the fervor
leaked into my eyes to soft-blind
me from it?
And is that an irony
or simply an open-palmed slap?
Am I fooled?