How is it that 
this very rich man
sits at this open-aired bar
on the edge of
the Caribbean Sea?

The air is perfectly still,
the music loud,
but not too loud,
the people few,
but not too few.

Everyone feeling more
than just a touch of laughter,
the setting of work and dreams,
rewarded and fulfilled.

How is it that 
this very rich man
sits at this open-air bar,
just minutes from
the house on the beach
with all the toys
which all the money
can buy,
just minutes from his home?

How is it that
this very rich man
sits there, always
in such raw anguish?

The gentle woman
that he tries to drink
to comfort him,
when she goes home alone
will she feel sorry
for only him?

I don’t think so,
I think she’ll care
that much more,
for everyone.

How is it that
this very rich man
can’t care today?

How many foolish fights
have been fought,
how many terrible deaths
have been died?

How many more
will sit in raw anguish,
sharing tears
they can’t allow free,
the caring ripped from them
by some unseen fate?

How many more
will sit behind the shelter
of a bottle or a glass,
afraid they don’t
deserve to care?

How is it that
this very rich man
came to say
he didn’t want to kill
anyone?

How is it that he did
and no one let him cry?

When this very rich man
was just a youth,
how is it
that he was picked
to kill?

Did anyone know?

I’m sure someone cared
that the fights
being fought
and the deaths
being died
would not mean anything
to a very rich man
who can’t care
for a gentle woman
who can comfort him.

Did anyone care?
I’m sure someone knew.

How is it that
this very rich man
sits on the edge
of the Caribbean Sea
before his always
half empty glass,
imprisoned by
the solid mass
of the unearned anguish
of a youth
who probably cared,
if only he could remember?

How is it that
this very rich man
is so unspeakably sad,
how is that?