The poem is built around a trick of its own wording. Read straight through, the first and last lines say "Nothing going on," but the middle is crammed with movement: going to dinner, hearing news, heading to his house, then mine, then the coffee house. The speaker insists nothing is happening while listing a day full of errands and visits.
That gap is the point. The "nothing" isn't an empty day but an ordinary one, where all the small comings and goings blur together because none of them feels important. The repeated "to" pushes the reader along at the same drifting pace, from place to place without stopping. Even "news" gets no weight; it sits in the list like dinner or coffee.
The mood is quiet, a little restless, and gently wry. The speaker doesn't seem upset, just flat and observant. The square brackets around the whole thing make it feel like a note jotted down, or a thought set apart, as if the day can be summed up and shrugged off in a single line.