Noga watched
the other girls play.

Skip rope or
ballgames
or groups
in idle chatter.

She was left out,
an outsider,
she said
it didn’t matter,
but deep down
it did.

The others
had new dresses
and shoes,
their hair shone
with the washing
each day,
spoke about her
as she went by
their way.

The boys preferred
the pretty girls,
the ones who shone
or outshone her
or who promised
them more
as they giggled
and swooned
and swayed their hips
or pushed out
their tingling ****.

Their parents
picked them up
in posh cars;
she walked
the long trek
on worn-out shoes;
their parents spoke
with clipped voices
and la-de-da tones;
hers spoke
or shouted
or pushed out
groans or swore;
blamed her bruises
on arms or legs
on the usual door,
to those who cared
or casually stared.

Noga watched the girls
kissing boys,
saw their lips meet,
their hands in play,
but no boy kissed her,
no lips met hers,
no hands in play
sought to touch
her skin.

She only had
pretend romance
or maybe dreams
of shining knights
on big white horses,
no real love,
like other girls
with their
hot lip kisses
or overt ***
and intercourses.