Billy Menz

In the fake rains born from the careless drivers
-damn, not another crazy kid behind those new cars-
and the last night´s foul weather,
he walks, Billy Menz, with his stalkee´s blouse buttons
bubbling up and  down sweaty in his pockets 
balldancing around with his panting fingers.
On the way home, on the way to work
(old antiquary, dusty dim days, cold, fireless nights)
Herr Menz, with a distinct lack of cane
and a hat that feels too awkaward on his headtop
makes the miss´s blouse button dance,
musing about his fingertips feeling her blouse,
musing about the future hellos,
the potential hellos, the strikeable conversations
under the bright streetlamps, under the spring parasols,
inside the evening cafés, inside everywhere
and under every streetlamp, he muses,
in every borough,

while on the opposing sidewalk,
hat shading his eyes nose cheebones
Herr Franz files away, as meticulous as his bosses would like him to be,
a future new page to be recorded 
in a quiet midnight
when there is no rain
everybody curls around the Praguese cold
and Mr. Wilhem Menz 
mentally twirls his non-permitted souvenirs.