Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 41" is a string of short snapshots from city life, most of them seen from buses, sidewalks and street corners. A near-miss with a stranger, a hangover, a pigeon, a flagger in orange, a man preparing a syringe on Thanksgiving: the speaker notices all of it and rarely comments. The tone stays dry and wry, as in the joke about a bladder that "tops out before home."
The feelings underneath are quieter. There is weariness and some loneliness, but also real attention and a bit of tenderness. The lollipop-sharing stranger and the pigeon and seagull sharing the rooftop sun suggest small kindnesses amid hard surroundings. The Christmas and Thanksgiving references hint at holidays passing unnoticed by people on the margins. The mood is gritty but not bleak. Even puddle-lit arc lamps become "passable starlight," as if the speaker has learned to find beauty in what's available.