Mr. Bag-In-The-Neighbor's-Recycling — "I Picked It Up, Didn't I"

Lyrics

Six-oh-seven AM. Tuesday.
The streetlights are still on, a little embarrassed by the sun.
The air smells like wet pavement.

I see him from my window, nursing coffee.
Mr. Bag-in-the-Neighbor's-Recycling.
He's got the little black dog, the retractable leash that always gets tangled.
He does the right thing, you see.
Bends at the waist, a little grunt of civic duty.
The opaque bag, black plastic, a neat little knot at the top.
A responsible man.
Then he straightens up, and starts walking.
Past his own house. Past the next one.
Three, four houses down to the corner lot.

He carries it like a small, warm trophy.
That little weight in his hand.
Thinks to himself, "Well, I picked it up, didn't I?"
A smug glow for a job well done.
He's done his part.
He's done his part.

Now it's Friday morning.
The neighbor, Sarah I think her name is, rolls out her blue bin.
The big one for plastics and paper, the city gave us last year.
I see her from my kitchen window.
She's rinsed the milk jugs, I can see the water drops.
Flattened the Amazon boxes from the week.
She opens the lid to add one last thing...
And she just stops.
Her hand hovers.
She stares down into the blue.
A dark little bundle sitting on a bed of clean things.

And he carried it like a small, warm trophy.
That little weight in his hand.
Told himself, "Well, I picked it up, didn't I?"
A smug glow for a job well done.
He did his part.
Someone else will do the rest of it.

It's not the crime of the century.
It's not even a misdemeanor.
It's just... a cost, transferred.
A quiet little invoice for living next to you.
The shopping cart left sideways in a parking spot.
The last sheet on the roll.
It's the small tear in the fabric of the morning.
The quiet hum of someone else's problem now.

She closes the lid. Slowly.
Rolls the blue bin to the curb.
And leaves it there.
The contamination sealed inside.
For someone else.