Dead Fly

by Ted Kooser, from VQR

This black sedan lies on its top
on the kitchen window sill, its wheels
in the air, its battery drained,
the oil trickling into the cylinders.
It must have happened during the night
when no one was around to see,
and it looks like someone has been here
early this morning to pop the trunk
and crawl in under it to take out
something. But I am only barely
curious, continuing on as I am,
doing my few breakfast dishes,
fussy to get all the egg from the tines
of my fork, and then from the spatula
and the weary old skillet that has seen
so much, and me with the morning
picking up speed, the days streaming past,
hot suds all sparkly on my hands.