He sits in his car—a placid thing to do in form; conformity to a cage, though a moving and capitulating one—and rhymes a conflicted man’s words; a full-hearted attempt falling flat only on account of its irony: condescension to others by artifice of a larger, more expansive cage, rolling the original rhymer’s contrived artifice to a more expensive place, somewhere other than the drive through. As if this chasm between two owned men—owned by the low ceiling of their expectations of life (money and bitches, temporary artifice all around) if punctuated by true poetry—as if this chasm were so wide. Differently pressed metal, slightly louder speakers blaring the transient music of one man or another. Same aspiration, same pattern; hardly any chasm at all, yet the larger of the two, the original rhymer, he projects a wide gap for that is all there is, projection. A Hermès then he is—a rhymer, placing himself amongst the gods with his lyre and verbosity. And so, the man in the drive through, he is not so different, just a bit less inventive. An original rhyme over top of someone else’s is just the thing. He sits in his car, a Greek, but poorer for not knowing himself so. Or perhaps he knows and is simply in his art, atop his own quixotic steed, the drive through his picaresque plot line.