Conditioned

I sit, shades drawn, windows shut
against the piercing heat of a
July day that feels closer to the sun,
pale fingers on cool black keys,
phone chirping with heat alerts
and news of cooling stations--
maybe I'll doze off in my conditioned
air, and dream of a paleolithic me,
sun-burnished and bare-footed,
maybe a spear in my hand,
making quick time over
hot dusty ground, picking berries or
tracking a beast—will I wake in
shame, in my cool artificial twilight,
that narrow island of comfort,
remembering that brave, burnished
hard man, under a slightly younger sun
that's just as hot, just as fierce?