Outward Bound Poem by jim hogg

I must have hoped to be somewhere
at some appointed time and place
to cast a net, or set a snare
or offer up myself as prey

I ram my pockets full of stuff
and fret because I can't be late
but still, I'm late, I know I'm late

the house is made of ancient stone
a single storey, bleak and small
beside a narrow gravel track
and there's no answer at the door
I'm sure it's not Mulholland Drive
it doesn't seem quite real enough
but there's a stranger at the gate
he's in a suit and out of place
he stares as if he's looking through
the house, my eyes, my memories
and, listening to a far off song
forgets the world and drifts away
'til I'm alone and all is dark
and in the darkness I'm a spark
of tiny singularities

I've never felt so small before
I'm tightly wound and outward bound
and waiting for my life to start
when you appear with my school scarf
pursued by swarms of question marks
and that's when I began to rush