by Jeffrey Thompson
How can I finish anything
when my first instinct is always wrong
and my second instinct is to trust
my first instinct? All the words
stand up straight and blameless
on their shelves but soon
I can’t place them anymore.
They are the spines of books
I don’t remember reading
or someone else’s family photos.
They are an empty museum wall,
or traffic stalled in a blizzard,
trees lining a riverbank
in a picture postcard landscape,
streetlights flickering off
in a foreign city.
Or on. I don’t know. It isn’t funny.
It’s so much like life it isn’t even funny.
Jeffrey Thompson was raised in Fargo, North Dakota, and educated at the University of Iowa and Cornell Law School. He lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where he practices public interest law specializing in capital habeas litigation. His work has appeared in journals including Salamander, North Dakota Quarterly, Hole in the Head Review, ONE ART, and Maudlin House. His hobbies include reading, hiking, and photography.
January House Literary Journal 
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