That small
Black-and-white
Cur curled up
Like a cinnamon
Roll on a thread-
Bare throw rug in
Front of this
Baker’s doorway
Day and night come
Rain, sleet or snow,
Don’t tell me that
He’s not like
All those other poor
Souls you think don’t
Know any better than
To come in from
The cold—he doesn’t
Know that.
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