Imagine a poem pasted inside a city bus, wedged between advertisements for things you're meant to buy. That's the joke and the ache of these three short lines. The poem calls itself "reckless," which is a funny word for something so small and so tucked away. It's reckless because it dares to sit among the ads asking for nothing, selling nothing.
Then comes the twist. The voice sounds like a security guard or a cop at an accident: "there's nothing to see here, folks. Keep moving." It's an ironic line. The poem seems to wave readers away from itself, even though it has just caught their attention. Maybe the speaker is gently mocking how quickly commuters look past anything that isn't trying to sell them something. Maybe they're also a little rueful about poetry's place in everyday life.
The mood is dry, wry and quietly playful, with a small note of loneliness underneath. It's a poem that knows it might be ignored, and says so with a shrug.