He filled his van up with Hoovers,
brushes, cleaning fluid, mops
and other sorts of things. Whisky
was painted on the back of his throat,
and his phlegm was curried
with it when he spat. He slammed
the door and walked around, money
rattled with keys. His polished hair,
black as his heart, glowed,
as if something slithered through it.
I never liked seeing him or having
to say ‘Hello’. He was a difficult man,
opinions, wind-like, and a stare that made
you think you shouldn’t even be alive,
never mind looking at him.
