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?