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Candy Crush
For hours we inhabit
the living-room --
she on the couch and I
on the chaise --
tap tap tapping our iPads,
pulling down
red and green
and purple and yellow
jelly beans
and jaw breakers,
pastilles and gum drops
(or are those Chicklets?),
Mike & Ike shaped lozenges
that stripe
and explode
in patterns of threes and
fours,
our neurons firing
in the screens' square blazes
as if we stare
into pale campfires,
together but
separate
in some odd, manufactured
forest,
far from human commerce
or conversation.
Mother and daughter
sharing
the same electric space,
wordlessly
comparing scores,
and once in a long while
looking at each other's
blank faces
as our five tries dry up
and the application
loses its grip.
It's July.
Sun holds our neighborhood
in a humid hand,
squeezing,
but we're safe
in this
refrigerated containment,
waiting to
reload,
waiting to
crush through
another hour
or two,
side by side in
comfortable silence.
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