Jason Jones

The Landlord

Dad rented the yellow house
with the inconvenient front door
that everyone avoided
to Mom’s brother Orton.
Mom said Orton was a genius,
could’ve been a philosopher
if God hadn’t made him
a gravedigger. Dad would swear
Orton was plum crazy & family—
reason enough to let him slide
on half the year’s rent,
reason for Dad to turn wrenches
two shifts a workday,
backbent under the hood
of another Sierra,
another Lumina,
a rare Corvette,
to make the mortgage
on the yellow house.
He said he did it all
for the appreciation.
But come eighteen months
Dad ginned up enough
temperature & finesse
to show Orton the door.
Work boots, belt-buckle,
plaid-shirt, shoulders tempered
dull as a hand-me-down
mattock; Dad meant
business & upheaval—
we were all evening steadying
ourselves on our rocking chairs,
leaning into a game of checkers,
me & Mom, waiting.

Did you enjoy this? Share your comments here.

Jason Jones lives in Virginia. His poems, interviews, and writing about music have appeared sporadically since 2008, most recently in The Jokes Review and Cholla Needles. He holds an MFA from Florida International University and founded The City Salt.