Andrew Hamlin strings together a set of short, haiku-like snapshots, each a passing moment from city life and a restless mind. A few monks walk by a vendor wearing the same orange. An old man refuses to step aside. A woman kneels and sings at a church door late at night, asking whether God is still home. Between these street scenes, the speaker turns inward: a warm foot, a clogged drain that undercuts the advice to "live in the moment," a shout from a woman he fears.
The speaker seems observant, a little wry, and often uneasy. He jokes about "Fifty Shades of Grey" fitting the haiku count, then dismisses it as lousy porn. The last poem is the quietest and most honest: his accomplishments are the size of one soup bowl. The mood mixes dry humor with loneliness and mild self-doubt, and the poem finds small comfort in simple things like a warm foot and "enough for tonight."