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.