Our PE teacher was too busy
scoping out potential cheerleaders
to pay attention to my escape.
While we were supposed to be
running around the track, I took
a quick detour behind the school
to the storage building.
Of course, it wasn’t locked.
(Nothing’s locked around here.)
I stumbled around inside
the secret darkness smelling of mold,
I scraped against harsh metal desks and chairs,
and found boxes stacked high,
almost to the ceiling.
Curiosity grabbed me, boosted me up
to scale the wall of boxes
and grab one.
Inside were yearbooks—
1945, 1946, 1947—
all the way to last year,