Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 10" is really a string of sixteen short poems, each catching a single moment: two white trucks appearing out of the dark, raindrops filling a parking-lot pond that looks like a lake to an ant, ice cream at 2 am. Storms drift in and out, and so do memories, laughter, and small bursts of feeling.
The speaker moves between wonder and rueful honesty. He admits how little he knows ("how little I know of it all!"), how fleeting calm is, and how an old dream of glory doesn't fit with sitting awake at night. There's humor too, as in the line about telling people God doesn't exist and getting "what's coming." Yet the final haiku, where two enemies are left at a table to "share growing old," feels gentle, even forgiving.
The mood is quiet, nocturnal, and a little wry. Nothing big happens, but the poem suggests that paying attention to ordinary scraps of life is where meaning, and some peace, might be found.