Ben Spence // I-70

Nothing around us moves as we glide down the desert highway.

We head for night as it tosses its sparkling quilt over us.

Saxophone riffs summon reminiscent lyrics;

We go City to City, as “Baker Street” approaches.

Walled in, yet released by those sedimentary ridges.

These experiences are a part of us.

This stretch of pavement.

Those purple mountains.

This foreign place.