Dry

I give to you a series of seven haiku in eleventy-one words...

Sweat seeps from his pores,

His thirsty throat dry as bone,

In the swimming pool.

She hangs the red shirt

To dry in the yellow sun,

But a black cloud looms.

A few dry eyes gaze

As she lies on the blue bed.

It’s not a sad wake.

He clicked on the screen.

The system fatally crashed.

Twas just a dry run.

‘Hi, my name is Mike.

I have been dry for twelve days.’

He sips from his flask.

He climbs to the bow,

Claims to be king of the world

On a dry docked ship.

‘Is it right or wrong?’

‘Yes,’ he replied with a smirk.

Dry wit eludes me.