when I was nine or ten
I buried an old birds custard tin
with a collection of interesting items in

two fifty pence pieces
a couple of sweets
a letter both sides of two sheets

I talked about the things I liked
the places I went to on my bike
what I watched on telly at night

addressed to future persons unknown
I buried it under a garden stone
could hardly bear to leave it alone

I imagined an electric, silver foil future
scientists on hover scooters
scanning the tin with big computers

what an incredibly generous gesture
by this mysterious ancestor
bequeathing us his worldly treasure

a few days later I dug up the stash
kept the coins, tossed the rest in the trash
fuck the future I needed the cash