Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 20" is a string of short observations, mostly from trains, buses and streets, strung together like snapshots. A woman does her sudoku, a man has a tattoo the speaker won't ask about, ducks are heard but not seen, a dog barks during nap time. Nothing dramatic happens, and that's the point. The speaker pays attention to strangers and small oddities, like a sign reading "hole" that really does have one.
The feeling is quiet, curious and gently humorous. The speaker holds back from intruding ("I don't ask him why"), notices kindness (a seat given to a blind man, with a touch on the shoulder), and shrugs at minor annoyances. The final haiku shifts to something more reflective: the speaker says he will leave nothing for posterity, only "same sun, same window." The mood suggests contentment in ordinary days rather than a wish to be remembered.