The Congregational bell downtown
strikes ten. I’m surprised though
I know it does this every hour of the day;

there are whole weeks
when I don’t hear it because
I’ve lived here so long.

Rushing to the store
late before it closes
is something I do

that most folks around here
never need to do because they’re
done and locked and asleep by nine

at the latest. Walking the aisles
in a pea coat and earrings, ponytail
hanging to my shoulder blades,

I barely draw a look anymore
from anyone — renowned small town
eccentric, pausing

in the cat food aisle,
loading up to head home before
the next bell rings,

still hoping something will happen.

1. I edited the previous poem a bit. Thanks for suggestions…

2. Robbie Q. and Joel Chmara made me laugh harder than I’ve laughed in ages.

3. Anti-Semitism sounds just as ugly in a foreign language. (I’d explain, but I’m too pissed to be coherent about it. Let another Worcesterite dig in on this.)

4. I was offpage for a new poem tonight for the first time in ages. Can’t imagine why…

5. I want a new way to categorize what I do, creating a place for some of us who sit in my place to hang our hats.

We’re:

— poets first, performers second
— post slam, for the most part –we came of age in it but don’t find it too interesting anymore
— want less speed, fewer words, and more space for audience thought and interpretation
— are more comfortable with ambiguity than the average slammer
— less interested in face time now and more interested in legacy later. Universality.

“Post-slam” is too obvious. “New Category”? NOT “spoken word artists” — I loathe that term.