What the Floor Was Before

We pulled the top layer up

and there it was:

avocado green hexagons,

circa 1974 or close,

somebody's idea of the future

wearing out beneath somebody else's.

The glue had gone amber.

One stain, large, off-center—

nobody could say what made it,

which is the kind of thing

that gets funny and then stops.

My aunt said cover it back up.

My cousin said throw it all out.

I stood holding a curled strip

in both hands, the underside still tacky,

thinking about all the meals

eaten above that stain,

above that green,

above whatever was under that,

all the way down to dirt.

We threw it out.

Poured the new stuff over.

The floor looks clean now.

I keep thinking about the stain.