by Tanner Pruitt

 
We were sitting on the floor, the carpet you nearly
knocked a Tsingtao onto, a beer I didn’t know
anyone actually drank, let alone willingly at home.
You told me how you decided your name came up
short for the DIY life you led, so you added Fast
in front of Eli Todd, and Fast Eli Todd is who you
became despite your Prius with the nonprofit plates
from western Mass. And while you were going on
about the time you worked the door at Shea Stadium,
you started doing this thing where you climbed up
on the loveseat first, then over to the sofa, and draped
your body over the edge of the cushions upside-down,
folded your arms across your chest and hung there
like a genie tipped out of its bottle. Strangest thing
you never missed a beat, or took a beat to breathe,
and never lost your thread, even when your head lolled
off the side of the couch and you smiled and asked
Is this yoga? and moved, bent, asked again, Is this?