Discover the Haunting Mystery Behind Gareth Culshaw’s “The Hoover Guy” Poem
There’s something almost cinematic about the way this poem unfolds—like a dusty, forgotten scene from a film noir, where a man’s rough edges and darker vices take center stage. Ever met someone whose very presence feels like a cautionary tale? Here, the van loaded with cleaning gear is almost a mask for a harsher truth, the whisky-stained throat painting a portrait of a man whose outward polish barely hides the slithering shadows beneath. It makes me wonder—what stories lurk behind those steely glares, and why do some people’s opinions hit like a gust of cold wind you’d rather dodge? This piece digs into all that discomfort with a precision that’s almost visceral… Yet, it leaves you thinking, “Why do we carry on forcing hellos with the difficult ones?” A question—half curious, half hesitant—that sticks long after the last line.
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.
