Dear Tutankhamun
(Ephemeral triumphs) Money does not grow on trees. Purses filled with Terminator seeds. Polished copper plated zinc valued by gold in a Kentuckian vault. Planted my dollar bills, sowed my consumer goods: reaped nothing. (Frugal inheritance) Sages and John Does gave me seeds - cost them arms, legs, and elbow grease. They said, “Tend to these with will and opportunity.” Of what use are the fortunes of pharaohs? Rotting tangibility amid an oxidizing hoard. To what end, for what purpose, at what cost accrue the treasures of dead men? (Spectral magnum opus) Good fortune in hand: won’t trade my green thumb for the Golden Touch. This shovel named “altruism” digs the way for posterity. Bury my body in an unmarked grave; I am so much more than this entropic carbon form