Macmurphy's Head
MacMurphy’s head hangs
Fittingly from my saddle horn.
I’d snatched it in a moment
When he couldn’t decide
Which way to parry.
The look of surprise is still on his face.
MacNulty’s ugly mug provides
Balance on the other side.
He was just slow, or stupid, or tired of living.
His expression is one of benign neglect.
I wonder whose woman will miss her man more.
But these are thoughts best left to philosophers.
The only head that speaks to me at this hour
Dangles with doggish eagerness under my kilt.
Fiona, warm up the haggis.
I’m coming home.
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