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. 
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.