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Now that I'm fifty-nine, I guess I am
another commodity like soap or gum.
A dollar fifty-nine can then become
a dollar fifty something, something being
the maximum terminal digit we have found
convenient to dismiss when we round down.

Not that I feel sorry for that horde
of nines we have ignored in life!  They are
foot soldiers of the bottom line, assigned
to die in prices of the stuff we buy.
They have their simple graves no trumpets sing,
in great landfills of rotting packaging,

each without a stone, without a wreath,
each a death in a dollar fifty-death.