I realize now
they were the abused ones, the misused ones,
the girls in the back seats of cars,
willing, hungry, any attention would do.
What boys called, with a self-satisfied wink:
easy, when what they were was
Most of them I lay you odds
struggling for air
under the thumb, the boot,
of a distant father, sinister uncle,
for none would listen.
For whom would believe.
All the sad girls, the voiceless girls,
carrying unseen yokes on
their frail backs
to the end of their days,
into their uneasy graves.