I'M No Rolling Stone Poem by Stella Sisanda Qishi

rapt, turning with every step
drooling, whistling, fraught with need,
pimped out rides hooting, faces
dangling from lowered electric windows
with lascivious gestures offering rides,
eyes darting from pillar to post
with come-hither glances.
wistful.
observing.
covetting.
their cohorts intervene but wink
with hungry eyes, beckoning me,
revealing their promiscuity,
desperate to inaugurate their own queen
of some brothel and pass me
from arm to arm
taking lubricant rides on these
salient contours but fortunately
these curves are not for sale
despite what they may think