city poem... much German

It's late and I'm at the computer lab working on a paper and poems... but I did finish one poem (though, still a draft) and thought that Miss Herbert would enjoy it, if not others.... Please forgive the excessive German in it. I don't think it makes the poem unreadable, but if it does, please let me know.

Oh, as for the prose poem, I've gotten a tiny bit of feedback and have come to realize that it's a work wrought with confusion and obscurity... Let me try and fix that and get back to you about it. Thanks for reading anyhow!

Now for the poem:

TÜBINGEN AM NECKAR
—“Die Stadt voller Romantik und Schönheit”

It’ll rain again this Monday,
for every Montag it does
and again will the rainbow umbrella-man
mount his bike and splay his patio-Schirm—because
//
if he can zig-zag down Wilhelm-Strasse and see you, he’ll be all smiles.
Laughing yourself, as you twist your black Regenschirm inside
the thick-stoned frame—its tall ceiling; slabby stairs—
you’ll pretend to dangle a pigeon that’s died.
\\
Upon reaching the wobble top of the spiral-stairs,
you will hang your bag on a turquoise hook,
listen for muffling, shuffling papers, and head to the prose
to check one Günter Grass: sein neues Buch.
//
Leaving, you’ll hop along the cobbled Altstadt,
perch on church steps in front of Marktplatz,
then lick your fingers of pistachio Eis before shrugging
off Penners as you pass famous spots:
\\
where Goethe once puked and where nuns never sleep.
You will cross die Brücke stretching over der Neckar,
pausing to peek at wiry, blue river-homes—
they’ve got Grand pianos, plus Mozart’s marble bust, you’ll be sure!
//
You will hitch the bus back as far as you can:
concentrate hard against smells of dead breath and sleep.
You will return to your corner of the city, cutting
through fields of yellow grass and feed for sheep.
\\
You will arrive at your Wohnheim, pull shut
your sealed-clean door on the stewy stink:
of rotting wine, fresh basil, drowned fruit-flies
and bloated vegetables gone soggy in the sink.
//
Sun will wink with the grins of two kleine Kinder,
their running outside before your glass door.
The boy will stop, though not noticing you—
he’ll be three, wearing specs, and she must be four.
\\
There, bracing himself only for the relief,
the boy will pull his pants down,
with his Superman briefs, he’ll show you how to live on—
through next Montag, he’ll ignore his friend’s frown.
//
He will piss on the damp grass;
you will laugh and laugh.