mints on the pillow

the woman at the inn
is old
now.
she stares out the window
bitter and alone.
the game is over.
the rooms are empty
the sign swings
off one hook on the post.
everyone is gone.
there is nothing
in the oven,
no cakes,
no buns.
the flowers are all
dead dried
and brown in the yard.
there are no more mints
on the pillows.
for no wants to be there,
no one comes.