In the Age of Air Conditioning
by Tim Kahl
In the age of air conditioning I make
my sons ride with the windows down.
I am cruel, for sure, demanding they ride
with me back to 1972, just the three of us
running down the road trying to loosen
our load. But instead of seven women on
my mind, I am trying to negotiate our way
past a deafening semi. A Harley proudly
flashes by us in the fast lane. The road crew's
jackhammers trill like militant jays.
The world around us has erupted into
threatening sounds, and I am their cruise
director, Julie McCoy, steadily guiding
this sweat boat into the thickening porridge
of sonic abuse — one more angry
Dodge Ramcharger horn honking at
a Subaru's swift move. Already a thin layer
of dew is growing on their skin, the adhesive
that sticks their backs to their shirts.
And I will hear about this soon,
their complaints will barely edge out
the persistent grumble of these highway
machines and the wall of air that falls in
through the gaps — the symphony
I would have missed had we been
sealed up in our glass and steel cocoon.
I wonder: do we condition the air
or does the air condition us?
The kids insist that the air go back on,
but I blast the Eagles at 15 watts
TAKE IT EASY, TAKE IT EASY.
I listen to the hum of the tires through it all
the way the dog hangs out intent on
picking up some strange scent,
the hair on its head and snout waving
like a freedom flag. Yes, I do believe
the children are our future,
but only the dog understands the past.
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