Those Big Numbers

I like tables at Farmer’s Markets
or textbook color plates of the varieties
of fruits and vegetables—

4,000 species of potatoes
10,000 species of tomatoes
7,500 of apples

4,000 chile peppers, 50,000 of all kinds.
A whopping 350,000 known types
of beetles. More found every day.

How many trees? How many lichens
and slime molds? The world is abundant
with varieties, each with its own flavor, texture,

purpose. How many kinds of unique
people? Surely more than the Zodiac’s
charts or sixteen types for Myers-Briggs.

I love big numbers—galaxies and stars
in the universe, habitable planets, light
years to travel to any of them.

Over five thousand books in my house,
and I’m still buying. Still reading.
I haven’t read half.

These odd factoids give me a sprinkle
of joy, a sense that all is right in this world.
The crows chatter, indifferent to the news.

*

Late to Badassery

No one has ever called me
reckless or impulsive. I’ve never
been wild by others’ standards,
have kept my wildness caged,
corralled, tamped, and tamed.

For once, I’d like to let loose, dye
my hair pink or purple, wear orange
polka dots with purple stripes, don
a crazy, outrageous hat like Carmen
Miranda. After turning invisible,

I’d like to turn heads for a change,
have people wonder if I’m insane
or dangerous when I talk out loud
to myself in public, purchase a cart
full of cookies and ice cream.

What would happen if I gave
voice to my thoughts, said the things
I shouldn’t say, let my inner volcano
erupt with lava and pyroclastic flow?
I’m too staid, predictable, dependable,

too steadfast and available for my own
good. Don’t train me by saying you can
count on me. Don’t be surprised when
I’m out of character, a bit deranged.
You’ve been warned.

*

Imagining a Road Trip

I can see myself packing the car,
working from a list I’ve prepared
so I don’t forget rain boots and hat,
or the chargers for my iPhone, iPad,
and laptop. I like the notion of heading
west, no destination, except toward
mountains. No one to answer to, no one
who expects me to explain my choices.

I bring a stack of books, notebooks, some
of them old and already full of ideas
and flagged with Post-Its. Since most
motels have microwaves, I could bring
frozen homemade foods in a cooler
so I wouldn’t have to eat fast food
on the way. The call to drive and drive
comes to me in early morning darkness

as it did that year I took care of my mother
while she was dying when I wanted to run
away from the life I’d chosen, however
temporary. Even to me, this seems odd—
this desire to run. What would I be
running from? I live alone. My last dog
died, as did my two indoor cats. The feral
felines would miss their twice daily meals,

and they are not a burden, never waking me
or finding fault. I do as I like, buy whatever
I want, fill my bedroom surfaces with books
I’ll read next. No one interrupts or presses
me to show up where I don’t want to be.
What am I longing for that seems out there
waiting after a couple of hundred miles
on an open road? Old as I am, my cravings
and hungers are still mysterious.

*

Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, seminar leader, and is the author of self-help psychology six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam). Her work has appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Prairie Schooner, The MacGuffin, Poet Lore, Slant, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.