Looking at a dog the night before
she dies, she will remember
a conspiracy of kindness:
the cat they called Old Smokey,
smuggled in from the back lane
and spoiled with sprats or cuts of ham
behind their mother's back,
and how, one night in winter
at their window, averring
in near-chorus that he must be cold,
they'd hear their mother say
you think I'm stupid, but I know
what you get up to, then
go on then, let him in.
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