Histrionic Personality Disorder 2 Poem by Morgan Michaels

I'd read of the plight of poor Sandusky. What rot!
Puritanism strikes again: where will it end?
I'd even googled the disorder. Took my sun-glasses off and read:
Defense today depending less on motive than diagnosis;
But I seemed to have all the symptoms: naivete, gullibility, low frust-
ration, strong dependency. The whole ball of wax.
After reading about it I did, anyway. And these were just the good things.
But how could I know for sure? Don't most have these traits? Somewise?
As for the causes, these were foregone:
turbulent both anal AND genital phases, in my case.
So the search for certainty'd brought me to this office.
As the expert, she was really supposed to know, no?
All I wanted was certainty. 'And, if it doesn't exist...? ',
I asked the translater, still staring at the floor
paved with lovely green travertine that felt good underfoot.
In reply, she just shrugged: these people are good at body language.
'Dunque, non'. That much I understood. She rose,
looked out the window, remarked, I think, about the good weather.
As she studied the sky I was impressed by her forecast.
'Would you like to have lunch? ' she asked, turning, in perfect English.
Flattered- , I gulped 'Ok, si',
wondering just how many euros it would cost me.
'What are you hearing at the opera? ', she asked.
'Ernani', I answered, ingenuously. 'Ah, an early one!
'You'll love it, I saw it, its wonderful', she said.
Together we took the elevator down, walked through an immense door,
and out into the broad, Italian sunshine.