In the drugstore I note artificial tears
for sale, and wonder who needs them,
how many one dollar can buy, what
an ounce of grief is worthor the panacea
to banish it. Perhaps the product's
for actors, who must weep on cue.
I leave that supply in its bottle
on the shelf, sealed tight in cellophane,
with a rubber-bulbed dropper for those
who may need it. The real thing
still clears my eyes, and with such
economies, drop by drop, I advance
into a cashless Utopia. Outside, stumbling
into a bed of yellow roses in the sun,
I notice that almost everything is free.
David Ray, Music of Time: Selected & New
Poems, The Backwaters Press, 2006.