Your Laughter

Your laughter flew and fell like coins on the linoleum
floor that bore the stamp of dried bootprints,
of mud, snow, and rock salt,
no matter how many times Bob mopped,
perhaps because when he mopped the floor
he always spoke of horses,
and I think somehow the horses got in there too,
over the years,
the caution-yellow bucket a trough of old water
licked up by horse tongues,
past rows of teeth
the color of our dirty linoleum floor.