There's a new rattle
coming from the bottom
of my 1976 two-door Chevette.

But this is no ordinary rattle. I hear it only at night,
and only when my headlights are on.

It must be that a little man has moved in,
a munchkin carrying a little jackhammer.

He wears Levi 501 work clothes,
stylish, silhouette, sturdy, soft.

He sports a crew cut and, on the bulging muscle of his right arm,
a tattoo of Sylvester Stallone.

From a pool of sweat under the car, I can tell he is a hard worker,
Even if he is afraid of the light.

I look for him, but I cannot find him.
He hides in the crack between the muffler and the muffler mounts.

He becomes a conversation piece,
especially when I date the ladies.

I stop the car and flick the lights on and off.
The rattle starts and stops on cue.

This shows I am different, unusual -
even suave like James Bond.

This amuses the ladies. Provides a basis for stimulating
conversation that will spark the night.

I think about writing Dear Abby
how my little man can patch sour relationships.

I think about writing Lee Iacoca
that Chrysler could use such a dedicated worker.

I think about writing God -
but why disturb him?

I wonder when my muffler will fall off
and how my mechanic will take the news when I tell him why.

But, maybe I shouldn't worry about these things.
Maybe I should just relax
and enjoy the little man's company while he's still around.

- Bob Miller