Poem ending with a murder/suicide

Poem ending with a murder/suicide

It's interesting to me there's a minimumbut no maximum wage. One without the otherseems like pants without legs or lovewithout someone to love. So whatare the groups? Peoplewho want no minimum or maximum wage;people who want a minimumbut no maximum wage; peoplewho want a minimumand maximum wage; and peoplewho want to eat. A minimum wageof twenty bucks an houris roughly eight hundred a week,or forty grand a year,or 1.6 million in a life. There'syour maximum wage—1.6 million a year.If you earn in a yearwhat I earn my entire life,you deserve the rightto be happy about itin a gated communitywhere you don't have to be ashamedof the dance of your joy.I deserve the rightto put heirloom tomatoesin the salad now and then.Such as when my kidgot her cast offand her hand looked fine,like it intended to go on waving at moonlight and birds.And I never thought about itbut slipped the insurance cardout of my wallet and slid it over.And the car startedthe first timefor the drive hometo our little bungalowthat needs a new paint job,but that'll happen this summer,right before we go to a lakefor a few days and I open a beerone night and think, I have a placein whatever this is.Then listen to the starssaying nothing in peace,though what passes for peaceis a mystery to me,not unlike who's behindthe universe or why so many peoplein unions voted for peoplewho wanted to kill unions, but we didand they died, unions died.Now where on eartham I supposed to send the flowers?