no mints

you set your one bag down,
stare at the double beds,
deciding which one.
there are large glassed
framed pictures of herons.
there are shells
and ships, as well.
the pillows are stacked
decoratively upon one another,
as the a c unit
churns like a Harley against
the wall.
the curtains swing
in the cold
breeze.
the phone blinks, there are
plastic cups,
maps,
a television
and small bars of soaps,
a bathing cap.
something like fish smells
in the hall. you hear children
bouncing
on a bed in another room.
when you leave for the day,
the room is back
the way it was when you arrived,
your cups taken,
your wrappers and papers gone,
the bed made,
the pillows stacked,
but no mint.