Poems by Joan Roger

Ode to Garbage Trucks

by Joan Roger

From Canary Spring 2024

Joan lives near Ravine Creek in the North Eagle Harbor watershed within walking distance to the Salish Sea. On clear days she enjoys strolling to Hawley Cove for stunning views of Mount Rainier.

My son, a toddler, ran to greet you
each Tuesday during breakfast,
calling your name as his Cheerios spilled
with the hum and hiss of your engine.
We’d wave from the porch
and watch a grime-covered man
with strong arms and headphones
upend our waste to mix
with the waste of our neighbors.
Even when you were full, you took
our broken dolls, used pacifiers
and dried-out paint cans,
compacting down the debris.
I don’t know how to do without you,
carrier of rubbish, remover of waste,
bubblegum wrappers, Styrofoam packaging.
You’ve made it so easy to throw things away.
I couldn’t dig a hole deep enough
to hold all you’ve unburdened from me
with your ten wheels whisking away
our byproducts to bury. But now,
when I wake, I wonder: where does it go?
This trash you take. To float as plastic islands
in the Pacific, to clump and clog riverbeds,
to seep into underground springs.
I’d like to learn to live more softly,
to show my son that earth
is in his blood. So I buy less, though this
is not nearly enough. And I keep believing
that if we can roll eighty thousand
pounds of steel around on your wheels,
or fly that same weight through the skies,
then we, most certainly, can find a way.