That dress,
I'll never forget it;
Short and white,
Indian type,
Tattered at edges
I questioned the price.
Actually not a lady like type.

You had put it on lay‑by
 And brought it home,
Thursday night shopping
Friday night it was shown.

You dressed in all glory
But changed into jeans,
When the night out envisaged
Became but a dream.

The dress now my darling
I’m unable to find,
 What did you do with it
I'll go out of my mind.

Did you take it with you
 The day you wore jeans,
 Did it die amongst the wreckage
 As did your dreams.

Wherever it is I'll never be sure,
But the night that you wore it
 My mind cannot scour.

Too short and too tattered
I roused and I scold
But you saw the beauty
I now long to behold.

            © Helen Catherine Cramer
7th June, 1985.

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