Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 43" is a string of eleven tiny snapshots, each catching an ordinary moment in what feels like a wet, cold, urban setting. A siren fades into morning, a bicycle gets drenched, a green umbrella swallows a man at a pay phone, a mitten sits turned inside out at a bus stop. The speaker mostly watches, and what he notices is the odd, overlooked stuff: a sticky persimmon lost between cushions, a fart compared to a rule nobody follows.
The tone shifts quickly. Some moments are funny and a little rude, and the joke about teaching an idiot to write haiku pokes fun at the form itself. Others are quieter and lonelier, like the heater's red light keeping the speaker company in bed, or the drain that "gave up long ago." The mood is wry, tender and slightly weary, finding small comedy and company in a gray, rainy day.