Around our house
bottles are standing on end,
his shampoo at the side of the tub,
my lotion at the back of the sink,
it’s good to conserve.

I am trying to train him
out of using bags.
Local clerks are beginning to know me.
“Oh yes, you never want a bag,”
she says with disdain
as I stuff my pockets and balance
my goods between hand and chin.
Enough of these machinations
and I’m bound to remember
to take a bag into the store.
It is a goal for the year
to bring home no bags.
So far I have a perfect record,
ten days into it.
He is less motivated
and not doing so well.
“I knew I’d be in trouble,”
he pouts, coming home
with one loaf of bread
in its own poly bag.

Sometimes I wish I could claim
higher goals than my zero waste dreams
but I can’t seem to.
I know this is my mission,
like the depression generation
balling bits of twine,
smoothing paper flat
to use again.