Stripped Poetry by Craig Elias Cold linoleum. Colder when my boots come off. Socks come off. Don’t shake ‘em. I don’t like when guys shake ‘em. Hand ‘em to me one at a time. My brown button-down goes. And my pants. Folded and set on the counter with the rest. Tee shirt migrates to the plastic chair where my socks have taken up residence. Boxers follow. Show me behind your ears. Finger-sweep your mouth. Under your tongue. Head and shoulders knees and toes knees and toes. I stare him in the eye. My retinas read his. Penis testicles lift. He’s locked in my ocular tractor beam. Turn around. Bend and spread. My form is perfect. An olympic diver’s pike. My score a 9.8. I hold. Hold. Hold. Make him look. Make him say That's enough. Make him say it again. Oh, my bad. I didn’t hear you. I take my time dressing. I take my time. My time.