Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 56" is a string of tiny snapshots, mostly from early July, that catch ordinary life at its strangest. A bus seat seems to hear rain that isn't falling. A tree seems to ponder the wind. Someone shakes condensation from a sherbet pint, and a soap bar slowly loses its printed name. Hamlin likes small physical details and gives them a playful, slightly dreamy twist, like hair that is "not quite tentacles but inquisitive."
The speaker comes across as watchful, wry, and a little lonely. Some lines are funny, such as the stubble measured in days, while others are quietly sad: the empty projector ticking on, the man shouting for "Rosie" every night, the speaker who almost plays deaf to avoid a confrontation but simply walks away. The mood is hushed and observant, warm with humor but tinged with isolation. The poem suggests that paying close attention to tiny things, even a soap bubble's 24 seconds, can make a day feel larger.