Dave Bonta's "Wage" turns work into a strange kind of garden, one that grows not in soil but inside the body. The speaker says money "will come up / in the chest," a place with "no water or land," so the image feels unnatural from the start. Instead of nourishment, the speaker says they "glut" themselves on fear. Earning a living here means feeding on anxiety.
The poem then compares this to an ordinary garden, which asks for joy, even if the cook tending it is a little foolish. Money asks for nothing like that. The speaker calls it "a perfect version of death," something cold and finished that still has to keep increasing. The closing lines, "the whole good night / full of miracle," sound almost hopeful, but the tone seems uneasy and ironic. The mood is dark and unsettled, a quiet complaint about how the demand for more money crowds out living things like growth and joy.