Monday, August 4, 2008


So we're in the post office, sending my little sister at camp four packages, and my brother finishes his root beer, the purchase and consumption of which my mother strongly discouraged. She's kept talking about the 14 teaspoons of sugar in one soda and how models' number-one way to stay skinny is to abstain from drinking soda, as if my 8-year-old brother would care. Anyway, though, he finishes the root beer, and he's looking for somewhere to recycle it (he's an eco-friendly kid). He spots a blue plastic receptacle labeled "Recycling" by the table and heads over to pitch his soda can. Unfortunately, it is only for paper products, which my mom begins to say, when a woman standing by the table stamping her letters says, "It's for recycling, not trash."

Trash. Even my little brother knows that can wasn't trash. It's a recyclable material. But not to the people of this state. Oh, no.

Five seconds later, we're walking through town, and we pass the souvenir shop. Beneath the blue awning of the store lies a small platform with a dog bowl of water. However, people have been using it as a trash receptacle, and it's full to the brim with garbage.

My mother and I are simultaneously struck by the same thought: Oh my God. Does it get any more sad and poignant than this?

You know, in this state, you have to pay for recycling? That's right, you have to drive a while to the recycling plant and pay to recycle. I can't wait to get home.

All right, I'm done with my italics. Comment on the poem, please.

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