the hole - by michael jerry tupa

The Hole 
     — by Michael Jerry Tupa

Old Jack Smith died Saturday
 — or so I heard someone say —
eighty-two or eighty-one,
life's candle burned up and done.

No one else to kiss his head,
his final thoughts left unsaid,
a treasury of daydreams,
scattered among hushed moonbeams.

Little legacy left behind,
a last smile was all they could find.
Like most, he had laughed and cried,
like most, he had worked and tried.