Through a vale of ozone-smog
The sun will blister my skin
And crisp my flesh
Like the remains
Of last Sunday's barbecue.

The midwest summer's legacy
To those who may survive it
To see the millennium pass,
Is a choking, oppressive weight
That drives the body downward
To melt and mingle in
Communion with the road tar.

In a superheated traffic jam
I sit and brood, wondering
Whether my radiator hose
Will burst, spewing the source of
A meager fifteen-degree benefit from
My compressed freon-created climate
Out upon the pavement,
To evaporate as it
Cools the concrete highway.

I look at other drivers
As if they were a lower
Form of life, never seeing
Them as persons with thoughts
And hopes and feelings;
I view them as obstacles
To my early arrival at
Yet another artificially cooled
Place, which I call home.

I have trained myself to
Be comfortable only where
My environment is artificially
Maintained - and real cool.
Was it in that other life
That I was willing to lie

In bed at night half naked
With no covering, soaked
In my sweat from the
Blaze of summer,

And only the wizardry
Of an old electric fan
To create the illusion
Of "real cool?"

The people at whom
I toot my horn, and swear,
And do not really see,
Have not seen me either.
We completely miss
The opportunity for human
Contact in our haste
To be as comfortable
As we once were
In a temperate,
Mother's womb.

Had I but stopped
To speak , and acknowledge
One other's humanity,
I might have
Made a difference,
Or cooled an anger,
Or saved a life...

But because I didn't,
I can at least be cool....
Real cool.

HM 8/19/95 ©