Sonnet to Recycling

I am so bloody tired of recycling:
rinsing every blasted dried tomato bit
from sharp-edged cans, cans that cut my fingers,
tuna tins, plastic peanut butter jars with lids.

And what about those lids? Are they OK
to recycle? They have no symbols in sight.
I squint and rub a soapy hand to see
if I've missed it somehow, that symbol.

I haul it out to the garage and sort
it into bins, into baskets and piles.
I drive thirty miles to recycle this stuff -
thirty miles in my old Ford S-U-V.

Then I enjoy McDonald's bacon, egg
and cheese biscuit with a medium coffee.

All in styrofoam.