Now that I’m rich, I buy broccoli rabe by the bunch,
no matter what the price. Same for escarole, Swiss
chard, organic spinach, avocadoes, artichokes.
My grandmother pored through the bin
of discarded vegetables, haggled to get them
free, picked off decomposing leaves, and cooked.
Would she celebrate that I still prepare the foods
of her peasant origins: pasta fagioli, minestrone,
lentils, beans of every kind? I can buy anything
I want, happy I don’t want a yacht or mansion
or a trip around the world. I live amid abundant
trees and flowers, redbuds and dogwoods blooming,
a pantry stocked for snow, rain, hurricanes, floods
of introversion. Birds delight in my offerings
of occasional pecans, pignoli, and macadamia nuts.
When I imagined wealth, I thought I’d have
flowers delivered daily, hire a driver so I could
sleep and be delivered to my destination.
Call me nuts. I’m not really rich, but feel flush
enough to share with others, make small donations,
never feel I’m wanting for anything I want.
Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self. Her poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, The Comstock Review, Prairie Schooner, Slant, Poet Lore, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.