Under Every Bed

by Brett Rutherford

In high school years

my slave duty each night

was washing dishes.

An AM radio my only

companion, I sang

along with Beethoven.

When the plug was pulled

because Westerns prevailed

in the TV room, I sang

anyway, inventing whole

symphonies as I went.

An open window

above the steaming sink

sent my voice out,

where a thin man

full camouflaged

and ready to battle

the Communister

Atheist hordes, leaned

to listen. That year,

I fueled his worst

fantasies. First off,

I taught myself

Cyrllic and bellowed

out Russian folk-songs.

Volga Boatmen for you,

and for John Birch, too!

Kalinka, Kalinka,

and Stenka for good measure.

This drove him mad,

so that he sent his sons

to lurk beneath

my bedroom window,

listening to hear

my secret broadcasts

to Leningrad.

Comrade Krushchev,

coordinates here

for the Nike missile site,

just as you asked.

On Friday nights,

the radio was back

in my control.

The Pittsburgh station

marked shabbos

with cantor songs.

"And now,

cantor Richard Tucker

sings ..." and I,

as best I could,

in my best tenor

sang with him.

Out the window

went my mangled

mock-Hebrew,

and just below

the open window

the man in camouflage

said to his son,

"God damn, I told you.

Russians are in there,

and Jews, too!

What are we going to do?"