i decide that i am a symbol

I awaken in the morning. I have a squirrel in my attic. She is noisy. She is a she, because she is swollen in the belly. She is small and gray. I watch her in the morning before I leave for work. She will come out slowly to eat acorns and such. I do not believe she will bite, so I leave pieces of apple for her. Also, there is a rabbit. I do not know if she is a she, or if he is a he. People call squirrels dirty scavengers. People call rabbits a nuisance. I believe both only do what they are required to do: to live and build their family. —My next-door neighbor is a banker. His name is John. It could be John, but is not John. It is probably Harold. He throws pebbles at the squirrel. He also throws twigs at the rabbit. I wonder if John is a tragic symbol. I drink my milk; I decide that John is, indeed, a symbol. I think I will write mean things about him.
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I work downtown. There are no squirrels or rabbits in my building or on my block—perhaps there are some in the park, but I have never seen them. Today I walk by the park hoping to see a squirrel, perhaps a rabbit, maybe offer them a small piece of my sandwich. But I only see a homeless family. Around me, on the sidewalk, I hear lots of people say dirty words about the family. They say, “These homeless families are dirty scavengers.” Or they say, “This homeless family annoys us.” I look down, sadly, at my shiny shoes. I believe the homeless family only does what they are required to do: to live and feed their children.
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The squirrel that lives in my attic is tiny and gray, swollen with offspring. The rabbit that lives in my yard has big dark brown eyes and white little paws.
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There lives a family with a little boy in the park.
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I eat my sandwich. I decide that I am also a symbol. I think I will not write mean things about John.