I stepped out of the car into the fragrant shade
of a flourishing fig tree,
growing just beyond the bank parking lot,
spared by a property line when the bank was built,
its scent buoyed me on such lucid memories
for a second I wasn’t sure where I was

five years old
stretching to reach the hot doornail
at the chicken coop door, knees bumped
against the pail of corn as I snapped the nail loose
and pushed open the wire gate
squawking chickens gave way in a wave

the purple figs were softening and warm 
sandpapery leaves, sparkling with fine stellar grit,
brushed across the dry shingles of the coop,
a sweet aroma of corn rose from my bucket
and light softened on the dusty quince next to the fence . . . 

kernels rattled as I poured them into the trough 
when a gray rat appeared with unblinking eyes
at its hole in the dirt, its pelt plush as velours, saw me
then popped like a bubble.
I dropped the bucket, but before I could run
felt myself in a shimmering mirage
black heat curls above asphalt roiling toward me
from a diesel truck idling
at the drive-through ATM

when its moist, warm exhaust reached my face
I held my breath
the air of my childhood a dream