Recycling is reluctant in my neighborhood
people trawl out dented green buckets fitfully
more often deciding last nights excessive salad box
can rightfully be squashed hidden beneath leftovers
I always wondered why it was harder
to drag a brown can of garbage to the curb
than green? Standing hip-cocked applying lip-balm
smacking mouth, angry stare, tut, tut
why suddenly, snow, rain, sleet
become palpable reasons for ignoring the need
to recycle our excess waste
perhaps we simply do not respond to do-gooder prompts
and the devil in us, the refuse rebel without cause
sits throwing spit-balls at recyclers who
do not come dressed in sage or holding olive branches
but are the same tired men who collect our garbage
the same who go home and eat microwaved meals
made of plastic, which they dutifully dispose
in the correct bucket in their neighborhood
for they do not seem as concerned as we
to flout the rules, maybe they are too worn-down
by collecting other peoples trash, the mounds of
excess and waste, whole meals, dead foxes, love letters
to think of oceans filled with plastic or sea birds
covered in plastic netting, or how sharks that die will
have a domino effect, in other words
it’s not just the bees
they may only think of whether they’re home in time
for Wheel of Fortune or gladiator porn on HBO
they have a simpler tempo and I wonder why
with our good jobs, well fed lawns, our bright children
advanced degrees and frustrating dogs, we resent so much
that little act of putting out the green box
as if it was a punishment and not an ark of sorts
staving off what now seems inevitable
we’re silly and wrong-headed of course, the inverse
of what’s meant to be, fighting the wrong battle
is being asked to separate toilet roll from cabbage head, really dictatorial?
Maybe we deserve the rising oceans, the drowning shorelines
maybe our lust for plastic and convenience
is very apropos
I’m sure cockroaches don’t recycle either
I wonder when it comes time to float
will we? Just like corpses take longer to
bloat? Formaldahyde coarsing through their veins
curtesy of chemicals in perfume and red wine
ah yes, then we can use the plastic bottles we find
bobbing on the ocean when we’re climbing into plastic boats
and floating, floating, floating
on that fine starving mess we’ve wrought
Those tired men are not among the privileged, and so need not resent the minor inconvenience. Besides, they know the guy who will pick up their garbage, and doing it right is an act of brotherhood. Thinking of them, I remembered a poem too long to put here, “A Worker Reads History” by Bertolt Brecht. It begins: “Who built the seven gates of Thebes?”
awesome! And truth if there was ever one!
Nicely done!
So sad 💜