Passive Voice

I neither smelled of dirt nor plastic.
Mine was a faint smell, really.
One had to be conscious I was there
By some other means:
Like opening doors for everyone.
I ushered all the ladies through,
Palm touching shoulder,

Then leaned on door frames,
Ventured within
But soon sought sturdy walls
And sliding glass doors
With floor to ceiling drapes,

There to peek,
To see the gentle sway of hips,
The cosmetic color of skin,
And wonder what body heat
My hand may have missed.