Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 22" is a string of quick snapshots, each one caught in a few lines. A gas man plods past, a ladder lies in the middle of a road, a blind man folds laundry with his cane leaning in the doorway, a fly stubbornly refuses to leave a window. Nothing big happens. The speaker simply notices, and the noticing is the point.
The feelings shift from one image to the next. There's a flash of hope when the phone rings and he thinks, just for a second, that someone is calling to say she loves him. There's a grin at shooting-star humor in the grey season. Music shows up too, with the ghost of Lester and the sound of Bud Powell in the dead of night. Other moments are sadder, like the man who sleeps wedged in an alcove while a windstorm splits branches.
Together they build a mood that's watchful, wry, and tender. The weather is dull, yet the speaker keeps finding small bright things in it: a green station roof, a chandelier glowing through purple glass, red taillights like frozen raindrops.