Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 31" is a string of tiny snapshots, mostly of everyday city life: bus stops, laundry rooms, a florist's doorway, a coffee shack. The speaker watches more than he acts. He notices an old man's shaking hand on a headrest, a mother panting after her kids, a worn teddy bear slumped as if napping, a stranger singing Bill Withers. Most of these moments are ordinary, and the poem treats them with quiet affection and a dry sense of humor, as when the speaker, in his "Bud Light" shirt, is in no shape to question the two bus boozers.
Underneath, there's a thread of loneliness and mortality. The first haiku jokes about dying alone, and later ones mention leaving and saying goodbye. The speaker sounds wry, observant and a little tired, but open to small kindnesses. The mood is gentle and reflective, and the final image of a ball stopping beside a drooping flower, where "nothing else happens," suggests that paying attention to such stillness is enough.