Israel

 Fierce trafficked in non-sequiturs

like Gary Larson on Adderall.

"I'm not as think as you drunk I am," he'd say to his boss

while delivering newspapers.

"Are you a fan of the country superstar Garth Brooks?"

 Wednesdays he'd let Mr. Paisley

the turtle do laps in a mop bucket while

replacing the water in the tank.

"He used to be mine," Israel said,

wiping the fake wooden logs with a towel.

"Then I gave him to the boss's son. He got bored."

 Israel's face was the angular vacant.

A long, not-quite-frown, sheltering

both mumbled vulgarities and restentments of the times.

"I don't think I should have to go to college," he'd say,

before taking a long weekend to hunt ghosts and

dye his girlfriend's hair.

 Israel Fierce was nothing if not recession proof.

 He lowered his former turtle into a new tank

like putting a newborn to nap.

"This is the circle of life," he noted.