Push Day

By MIKE FISH

Seven portages already, muskeg up to here

Big water, stiff headwind all day

Hands hard, good mates, no fear

Where’s the site, you say

Around the bend and through the narrows

Sun baking down, visions of a place

Esker topped with pine, plenty of space

Shoulders sore, fading daylight

Where, where’s that site

Round the bend and through the narrows

Hailstorm of insults, hate all round

Grotesque

Rights pushed underground, free press?

Where — oh, where — is that new sight?

Round the bend and through the narrows