Lingering

My feet touch the cold sidewalk
as I take out one bag
of trash to the curb.

No one else is out there 
but me and my feet, 
and there is a light,
hesitant rain that
reminds me of amphibians.

I want to find toads
on my porch but I haven't seen on
since moving to Long Island.

My bare feet want to walk
the whole street,
a pair of toads,
soft as their white underbellies.

I wonder how many feet
there are living around here, 
and if anyone else ever
thinks about the feel of cool sidewalk
on a night in April or otherwise.

I'm imagining everyone 
stepping out and standing still
just for a second, 
barefoot, looking around
at their street
in the shimmery mist
slick on stone sidewalk and asphalt
that hold up our houses.

Standing over the pile of trash,
I try to make out the shapes all inside
and I find a paper plate
folded in half.

There is no moon,
so I decide that the moon
is the paper plate hidden
under the plastic skin
of the trash bag.

I think about what
my feet might feel like
ambling on the surface
of the moon, if it might
feel chalky and warm,
and, maybe, its glow
feels on the skin
like wanting to speak. 

I want to tell someone about this,
but it's late,
and I should go inside.

But it's late 
and I should remove my feet
from the ground,
fold them in blankets,
dark and quiet,
tell them to hold their breath,
and no be so dreamy
when we're trying to inside.

Each body part, then, seems
like an argument for lingering,
for asking sensation 
what it means for the whole,
for asking if everything
can be felt underneath us,
or if there are objects 
we have to know less intimately.

Inside, I take a paper plate
and stand on it. 
It sticks to my toes and heel.
The plate feels loose and shifting,
un-sturdy as I would assume
that moon too might feel.