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Building A Raft At The Pond

By Dave Connolly

My neighbors at the pond thank me
For what they think is "hard work,"
Four hours under a clear July sky,
Cold beers and easy laughs
Over the screw-ups we each made
(And didn't want the wives to see);
Working with two upright men, fathers
Who come home from a day's work in the sun
And throw their kids in the pond.

"Hard work?"

All I could think of was the 'Nam,
Digging and building defensive positions,
Using whatever we had or could find each night,
Working to put something, anything, between us
And the Viet Cong rockets and mortars;
See, they always knew where we were.

So this here raft isn't work: it's pure joy.
I don't think I'll tell my neighbors why;
They wouldn't understand.

But I'll damn sure tell their sons.