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.