Andrew Hamlin's sequence of haiku reads like a notebook of things noticed on ordinary days: a bus ride, a hot afternoon with a fan running, a walk through a city block. Each short piece catches one fleeting image, such as a white feather blown through a bus window, crows fed with crackers, or tar melting at the base of a telephone pole. Some verses are funny or sharp, like the drug deal offered on the street or the paperback with its good parts torn out. Others turn quiet and serious, especially the thought of ending up as "three lines on smooth stone."
The speaker seems restless, observant, and a little worn down. He is sweaty, distracted, sometimes angry at the world, yet he keeps looking. The mood is wry and wandering, mixing small irritations with moments of real beauty. The closing lines, where he admits he stole a saying from the busman, suggest he accepts that some days are bright and some are just stones.