Happy Imogen

Years go by in a week sometimes. Her parents
kiss you on each check as you go, heavy with
baggage, packed happy with sadness. "Thank
you so much for having me!" You say - and,

seeing their daughter,

of course you roll out that ol' in-joke again: to
them. That slip that cropped up once and stuck:

"And have a happy and blessed Imogen."

"We will." Deep gratitude, always
somehow

Real. 

Apart from Imogen.
The only preteen girl
anyone knows who can
simultaneously glare and roll
her eyes. All who know her know

it: "Merry Imogen!" They announce!
To each other as she shows, turns, goes.

Are kids cruel?
It's hard to tell in so joyous
and mysteriously sacred a case!

"Why am I
the walking occasion? When
does it stop being funny? When
it never started?" 

There's an Imogen someplace, sure. This 
story

has an Imogen.
I wish you all the very 
unseasonably cold glare 

if you so much as dare to wish
people that

around her.