Histrionic Personality Disorder
'If it exists, you've got it', she said,
closing the file and swiveling my way
so that the five-flights-up Italian sunshine fell in her face.
I was impressed. These old buildings have granduer. Windowsills.
This she said carefully, through a translator: 's'il existe, dunque....'
Her lipstick-lined lips mouthed the words. I've always liked Milan-
and its 'porcupine of a cathedral', as Lawrence called it...felt happy there.
It has an Alpine brace and busyness missing in the south. But 'disgratia',
The rest of her remark was lost. My Italian's not that good.
'Gosh', I thought, 'I'm talking to the world's expert on HPD-
(having flown halfway 'round the world for a consultation,
and, not incidently, to hear an opera)
But to the translater I wondered what she meant 'if it exists',
speculating that if I'd waited two days I'd have gotten a better fee.
He translated the question. 'Essatamente', she replied, coolly,
'E s'il non existe...' Exasperating! Italian doctors now seemed as vague
as their American counterparts. The translater seemed embarrassed-
He coughed and looked down. 'Allora'. 'But, but...'
Being the expert, she was supposed to know, wasn't she?
Looking at the floor, the translater clarified a point.
I noticed the way her suit turned her blue eyes green.
I'd read of the.....
poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
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