Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 15" is a string of brief snapshots, each one caught in passing. A man runs for an ambulance, a gasoline can is knocked over and set upright, pigeons perch on a rooftop, a spider's web hangs in a recess on the seventh floor. Signs like "Lloyd Building" and "Int'l Teriyaki" suggest a busy urban street, and the weather keeps returning: the speaker is grateful for the gaps in the rain, for "feeble sunshine," and for lying down without being soaked.
The speaker mostly watches and wonders, asking who thinks about an old bench or what feeds a spider. The tone is wry and easygoing, even when the details turn odd or rough, like the self-inflicted punch to the head or the knitter who hasn't washed. The mood is quiet attention. Nothing is resolved, and nothing needs to be. The poem suggests that small, overlooked things, and small pleasures like dry weather, are worth noticing.