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.
