Rainy city life is captured here in a series of small snapshots, each only a few lines long. We move from street to café to news stand, watching people who are close together but still separate. The first haiku sets the tone: everyone is "isolated" under dark umbrellas, sizing one another up. Later moments carry the same distance, like the homeless man fishing for change in a fountain, or the footprints tracking from table to table in the coffee shop.
The speaker seems to be an observer, curious and a little wry. The memory of the woman flicking her cigarette into a puddle, and the plastic sheet protecting the "nude cover girls," add humor and odd detail. The mood is damp, quiet, and a bit lonely, with the trees standing bare among their fallen leaves and the hush after the hiss of tires. Then the last haiku turns it around. When the sun breaks through, umbrellas lift and reveal astonished faces, as if the city's people, finally uncovered, can see each other.