Symbiosis

               Kenneth Lee

               I sit with my thermos of coffee on the mall:
               a mile-long promenade, arcades of elms
               flanking a generous aliquot of benches.

               But at this early hour it starts to dawn:
               I am the only one without a dog.
               So, a witness to an ancient symbiosis,
               as it's evolved within a modern city:

              The dogs, I note, are smaller, the owners
               less ferocious. The former sniff then poop,
               the latter, like potty-training parents, pat their heads,
               gather it in plastic doggy-bags.

              It's no longer for the hunt or for protection;
               both species have adapted to survive
               hard loneliness inside a small apartment.