Ode to a Berry Dress

In a time of confusion, you set the world straight.

So many ignore you,
but I know you're speaking.
Volumes.

This specific adornment.
I see your wearer's family
with only you
in my line of sight.

The pattern-
like little dots,
but I can look closer.
Those specks are tiny berries.
Rounded like strawberries?
The tops different, though.
More like stems.

They lay on a bed of tan.
Not white, nor beige.
Is its true shade
light, or a dark one?
The material is dingier than intended.

Grime; play; filth.
The little girl who wears it;
a hairwashing away from being
dishwater blonde.
Possibly two away
from golden.
Unkempt; as a badge of honor,
though she doesn't care-
either way.

A snotty-nosed child.
Feminine more
by the berry print
than any other aspect
she embodies.

I notice
while topping-off
my gas station cappuccino:
My beverage as much
a farce
as her exhibiting femininity.
She's too young to worry
about such things.
If she ever will
is another question
entirely.

Ratty, with snotted nose...
already frozen in place
on her face.
Why bother wiping it now.

I try not to stare.

Her father
likely wears flannel;
for comfort,
not style.
More rugged than I:
a trucker's cap
with plastic mesh
wrapping behind.

I grin.

Typing the girl so easily:
when seeing the design
worn in a convenience store,
or any place where
road-weary people
enter and exit.

I don't judge,
but know the type.
The family of
the girl
who wears the
berry-patterned dress

A design not of a special occasion.
Only an ordinary day
for a family who
came into this
article of outerwear;
speaking volumes

by the little girl
who doesn't
say a word.