Thanks to Bobby Tanzilo's blog this morning, I now know it's National Poem In Your Pocket Day. I am a big fan of the poem, in fact, it was one of my majors in college, so here's one that I wrote.

It's called "The Jenny Conspiracy," and anyone who grew up in the '70s and / or '80s knows at least one -- possibly six -- girls named Jenny or Jen or Jennifer. Personally, my grandmother, sister, sister-in-law, high school best friend, Cabbage Patch Doll and college roommate are all named Jenny, which drove me to write this poem.

The Jenny Conspiracy

Before Watergate,
a weird thing was under way.
Millions of moms
named their munchkins
the same moniker:
Jenny,
short for Jennifer.
A curious spelling, really,
with the "f" instead of the "ph"
as in Christopher and Stephanie,
also popular names of the day.
I, a Molly,
was jealous of the Jennys,
who were always able
to find a little plastic license plate
or a rubber stamp
with their name embossed.
Classrooms were crammed
with jumbles of Jennies:
Jenny S., Jenny A., Jenny M., Jenny E.
They joined forces,
started their own societies-
sub cultures of super-cool schoolgirls.
While girls called Blair and Sunshine Rose
pined for a normal name,
the Jennys secretly dreamed
of being different.
In a desperate attempt to differentiate
they started twisting the spelling:
"J-e-n-i," "G-e-n-n-y," one girl
even added a silent b: "J-e-n-n-y-(silent) b."
Then, suddenly they blossomed
into these new creatures
who only answered to "Jen."
Jen was the girl with
the new wave tapes and the cigarettes
and Judy Blume's "Forever"
stuffed in her Army knapsack.
If you accidentally called her "Jenny"
she firmly reminded
it was "Jen." And then,
just when you got it down and
finally remembered,
she changed to "Jennifer."
OK, this girl you knew since first grade
is no longer Jenny, not Jen,
but Jennifer,
and you say "Jennifer" over and over again
until it isn't a name anymore,
rather a strange slur of sounds
that remind you of a bear skin rug,
a mink stole, a muff.
Later, when you move in with Jennifer,
the two of you slink to a Saturday night soirée
and drink skunky beer from a keg.
"Jennifer" you say, once back
at your bean bag and baked potato abode,
"Let's make a pizza." And she
looks at you, softly, and says in a tone you
hadn't heard since the sleepover
where she asked you to be her best friend,
"I want you to call me Jenny. You,
but no one else."