I remember: a sloping hill backing up to a fence
that separated us from the criminals—a small
“lake” hidden behind some houses
days filled with cartoons and summer ramblings
—never in the lake though—no one played in it; except
for when it was frozen, everyone glided upon its surface
the City of West-min-ster—NOT West-min-i-ster
as most people wrongly pronounce
for some odd reason I will never know—
where the southern part of the city’s grocery stores
pose as if they are the supermercados of Mexico
two libraries: one academic, one more frivolous
are where I was able to find material to bury my head
hiding in fictional worlds or hiding from crushes
I observed from afar creating my own narratives
about how we would share and create memories,
together, that would never be realized
wandering shelves to escape the overbearing
urgency set by my parents regarding schoolwork
seeking freedom from the monotony assigned
every night, which had to be “perfect”—no time
for procrastination—“earlier is better” was the motto,
but this motto was never shared by my peers
my free time was their work time and vice versa,
but the library was a place of freedom—for us all,
which is why we chose such an unlikely place
as our adolescent stomping grounds