Fortress of Mites

Even with air convection in the boxed room, the sister coughs,    
rings fluffed around the teeth of the portable fan.  
    
The water cup seems thick to the lungs, like another drink    
the faucets in Flint would conjure up.    
   
Pounding the bed, popcorn odor decay falls upward the nose.    
   
And the portrait of him blurs by dirt beside rusty paper    
and flora-rich, lime magazine, that must've befell to aged lubricant.    
   
She can't stay here.    
   
The sheets are khaki white.    
The pillow cover exhumes a dandruff tan.    
   
But the laptop screen is clear    
and the sentai figures mint —    
so the posters of idols with bleach scleras    
watching the hole where the fire alarm wires flap freely — amiss their case.    
   
The clothes and the carpet are one fabric,    
cushioned, but embedded with hanger shears and bursts of lotion,    
though the encrusted plates spewing fat    
convene in open view    
   
while not the bugs you'd think to find    
in an outcast's dorm,    
of whom was never considered dead until the smelled athlete's foot turned athlete's bock.    
   
And when the door opened,    
a desert air peels the eyes    
that now passed through a fortress of mites.