After years of grunt work,
sucking up to who knows who or what,
the vibrator scored a couple slick trades
and made a killing in the silicon boom,
bought a horse to celebrate the profits.

They go riding and both like it:
the vibrator for the fresh air and sun,
the horse for the way the vibrator’s purring
soothes the wreck of nerves that course
around an undetected spinal cyst.

Afterward, they share a cocktail
on the lawn, the horse putting up
a good face despite the pain,
the vibrator stirringly happy
with the range of their relationship.

The horse, however, thinks most
of his stable, of pressing the sore spine
against a low roof beam. Soon
the horse will have to be put down.
Already, he’s growing impenetrable—

but when offered another innocent
Manhattan, he nods Yes. Please.
Fill it to the rim.