At Stud

− See him if you like, she said
unlatching the garden door.
− Sex through the week and sirloin fed.
Who'd ask for any more?

And he looked happy, hardly rough,
alone, his glossy self.
Lapping up sun  −  Can’t get enough.
Certificates on the shelf.

−  And, after all, it’s what he’s for.
Spreading his pedigree,
ensuring there are even more
Grand Champions to see.

But which hedge bottoms does he hunt?
Which tree’s his favourite climb?
−  He’s much to valuable to want
to squander breeding time.

Locked up, shut in;  at home, all day,
boys’ toys to chase.  −  Content,
she says.  He purrs.  At play.
Mister Magnificent?

D.  A.  Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear them.