Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 47" is a string of short snapshots, each a single glimpse of ordinary life with something odd or sad slipping in. A porter sits still with spiral eyes. A bathroom stinks. A branch's shadow wavers over a dead lamp at 3 am. Rain fills shot glasses left on a picnic bench. A voice under a blanket says "I'm okay," and the speaker never sees the face.
The speaker mostly watches from the edges, and the poem suggests someone a little wary and tired. He hides from a storm while a politician talks, and he wonders what he would say to two old lovers. There is dry humor too, like the question of who will stack the universe's laundry, or the demand that "Cosmic Energy" be measured sensibly.
The mood is quiet, wry, and uneasy. Decay, loneliness, and indifference keep surfacing, yet the images are sharp enough that they feel oddly alive.