Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 21" is really a string of twelve tiny snapshots, each caught in a few lines. We get a man tossing coins at the sun, traffic crawling like snails, rain hitting stones, an old woman keeping white roses in the fridge. The speaker seems to be a city observer, noticing odd, slightly funny details as he passes through the day.
Underneath the sketches, the mood slides toward mortality. A singer declares that "all beauty must die," and the speaker wonders whether he can disagree. Summer struggles "not to die," and the cold nights bring decay. By the end, the speaker's inventory of what he owns is just skin and dust on the floor.
The final haiku ends on a shrug. He clutches at the air, calls it victory, then undercuts himself with "Well, big whoop." The tone is wry and self-mocking, mixing quiet melancholy with a stubborn sense of humor.