CGI Fish Poem

I’m not interested in tipping you
after you lick my shoelaces.
I went over my receipts,
as bad as a CGI fish.
They had those Jello edges,
the corners turned to plastic.

I saw your bowl cut through the leaves
and wondered if you still played piano
in the middle of the night,
as if any house for miles were big enough
to drown out your Rain Man melodies.

After the plane crash in the hail,
you said you didn’t want to wear contacts any more,
like a bad key change that wasn’t worth reverting.

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