The Bloke Selling Talk Talk in the Arcade

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.