Recidivous (Part 2) Poem by William Cavanagh

He liked to fold his dinner napkin upon his lap, just a tad above his kneecap. His salad fork was to the extreme left and he managed it well and deft. The liquid line, as etiquette dictates was to his right as he skillfully toasted his latest lady throughout the night.
He won their fluttering little hearts when speaking his own brand of pedantic precise language that was given to inventive and creative word play. He regularly spoke of eccentric original hobbies and fascinating strange collections and impressively, he was never given to hyperbole as is natural for most mortal men.
He was clearly a special person, a man of wealth and taste, blessed at birth with rugged good looks and an imposing physical figure.
He was of course... a poet.