He’s got the patter, the natter, the gift
of the gab. He’s got all the flattery
you can stand, different routines for madam
and sir, all that self-help book, cod amateur
psychology, the professional
bullshit, the Hey, how’s it goin’, my man?
He’s got you eating out of the palm

of his hand. He’s got the Prince Charming,
the How are you, darlin’?, the body language
training, the feints, the moves. He knows
the moment to run a hand through his smooth,
smooth hair, when to nod sagely, as if he
cares, understands. He’s got the world
in his mobile and the pen in his

hand. He’s got the opening line, the spiel,
the feel for people, knows the time
to look into your eyes, touch your
arm, to hang back, play it calm,
to open up about his life, to ask about
your children, your wife. He’s got your future
waiting for you: just reach out and

take it. His brunette student sidekick
advertises herself but our man’s got the pen,
the pen, an afternoon of chatting up
men, and when, at five, he packs up
his tongue for the day and walks into the world,
just like you, like me, like anyone,
he’s got the air, the night, the setting sun.