Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Last night I found out something horrible. It was something that I had suspected but now I know it for sure. No-one killed themselves but an image surely died. A relative that we all thought simply golden, the favorite child, the one with the big job, the biggest house, the newest car, the most money and the surgically enhanced wife, the one who had all the world says is good, is actually angry, miserable and has carried a frightening level of resentment for years. Rocky and I were stunned and when the evening came to a merciful close we were glad to see this person leave our home. Poor soul.
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