By k.j. mcdaniel

They’d been in there for years, lying among
carnival bobblehead collections, under a
shorted-out electric blanket in the cardboard
box marked as miscellaneous and tied up
with the red rotary phone cord. Hardly ever
thought about, almost forgotten like food
poisoning — a two-day puke fest of fries
marinating in stomach antacids whirling
around that little imagined carousel there
in the bowl — until you get that friend request
from a friend of a friend, which then makes you
want to call a best friend, all the while pretending
it’s about catching up, touching bases, but really not
wanting to go there again and having to cut the rotary
cord only to find the bobbleheads staring back at you
with permanent kooky grins.