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.