Caterpillar on the Hood

I saw little antenna peeking

up over my windshield wipers.

A caterpillar on the hood of my car

looked right at me. “Where are you

going little caterpillar,” I asked.

“I’m going to Hollywood to

become a famous movie star,” said

the caterpillar on the hood of my

car. He rose up on his many rear legs

and flexed a little.

“I’m not driving to Hollywood,” I said.

“Why not? Don’t you think I have the

charisma, the charm, the guile to be a

famous movie star,” asked the caterpillar

on the hood of my car.

“Well, I’m not a Hollywood agent, talent scout

or otherwise in the know type, but I’m not

sure there’s a high demand for caterpillar movie

stars,” I said.

I drove forward in the left turn lane.

“See what an action star I am, hanging on

the hood of your car,” said the caterpillar,

who was indeed hanging on the hood of

my car. “C’mon, take me to Hollywood,”

it said, two legs folded in prayer.

“No. I’m afraid I just can’t do that,” I said,

turning onto the highway.

“Whoa, where are you taking me? West is

the other way,” said the caterpillar on the hood

of my car.

“I’m sorry. Really I am. You’re really impressive I’ll admit.

Maybe when you’re a butterfly, I’ll reconsider,” I said as I accelerated.

“You’re loss. I won’t mention you when I give my

best actor speech at the Oscars,” said the caterpillar

on the hood of my car.

The caterpillar slid off the hood,

aloft in the breeze, disappearing from

my sight. Maybe to land on another hood,

and get the right sort of ride.

I’ll won’t hold my breath though.