Giant mechanical dogs build a tower of dirt.

As it grows, yellow caps crash the air together to celebrate. 

 

This burial is not like ones before,

where people slouch as penguins, watering the ground.

 

Here, they jitter to retro noise,

speaking in quantities and whens.

 

Elsewhere, small ones use tawdry metal sheets instead,

while their owners capture the day with a cuboid, DAIRY!

 

Scattered like seeds, these jubilee craters

intrigue us the most because this is where they will deposit the hoard.

 

In a trial of objects,

attendees rank their offerings:

 

A disc with crowned heads of famous capitalists,

a collection of lines, points, and squiggles frame the day,

 

boulevardiers contribute bejeweled beetles—

which tell more about the individual than the collection—

 

bluestockings part ways with their minds recorded

and babes offer wizards, spiders, and chocolate factories.

 

All preserved in a museum shape,

like a concrete cube or imperishable tub,

 

a cache for their heirs to decipher.

Why do they play hide-and-seek with their facts of time?