The Unforgiven
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.
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