A narrow bed, a table, a sash window
looking out on a fire escape

where, a floor down, light laughter
and the savour of Italian cooking

drift up to taunt me in my
solitude, my temporary room inherited

from a German girl, so I'm told,
but I know her only by a year old

copy of Time Out in a white drawer
and a few clipped photos on the walls:

Audrey Hepburn, her small elfin
head perched above a rhino's head

his small eye, his great horn;
above the bed, Clint Eastwood

totes a long-barrelled Colt,
turns a haggard profile: The Unforgiven.

They tell a sad story, I say
to the Spanish woman who collects my rent.

That one is you, she cocks an eye at Clint.
You are Unforgiven.

John Muckle