Stray

By Evan Young Weaver

The bridge into my hometown is named 
for a fellow, fallen, warrior. 
And if you drive north just a little,
there are highway markers for another. Driven around all that with a girl I loved,
and a decade later with another. 

There are a few more but 
high school classes separate memory so intensely. 
My sister knows those better.

The entire road through the Presidential Range is named 
for the mountain division, but I can recite the names. 
I drove that road once or twice with a girl I loved, too. 

I even remember the dogs' names, 
their dogs and no one’s dogs, 
and one or two strays. Dogs of girls I loved, too. 

In Oklahoma once, driving with a girl I loved, of course, 
I accidentally found the highway to match the bridge. That is, 
two passed together…
There is a bridge in New Hampshire. There is a highway in Oklahoma. 

There is a second bridge I know well in New Hampshire. 
I’d have to think a bit to put all these little bits of road in order because, 
memory, love, and dogs, all stray.

****

Evan Young Weaver is an aspiring writer. A New Hampshire native, he prefers to write about New England, good dogs, and old 4x4s, but themes from Afghanistan and the military are more common. He is begrudgery thankful for his parents' requirement that he write for twenty minutes a night in their farmhouse after dinner. Evan lives in Jupiter, FL with his cattle dog. He is pursuing his MFA at Stonecoast, University of Southern Maine.