Dog Fart in Shanghai

Lately I can’t shake the feeling
that not a goddamned thing depends on the red wheel barrow.
The rust is already spreading in that rain water, dug in like the rebels in some 20-year South American civil war.
That the butterfly flapping its wings in Beijing couldn’t make a dog fart in Shanghai, much less cause a tsunami.
All the Monarchs in the world on their annual migration, laying their own siege on the Mexican coast, didn’t prevent that car crash
And didn’t un-turn that dirt.
The hinge on the fence post squeaks out a morse code in the March wind
“Do not bother,” it says. “I’m going on without you.”