Telepathy

by Michael Dennis Browne

Today I explained telepathy to you,
         and telephone, and television,
                  on the way to day care,

and I said, sometimes when I’m at work
         I’ll think of you,
                  and if I could send you that thought with my mind,

you’d get it right then,
         and maybe you’d smile, stopping a moment at whatever
                  you were doing, or maybe not

but just going on with it, making a mask out of paper plates
         and orange and green cards
                  with markers and scissors and paste,

or screaming circles in the gym
         either being a monster
                  or being chased by a gang of them, but still you’d get

the picture I was beaming
         and you’d brighten inside and flash me something back,
                  which I’d get, where I was, and smile at.

That’s telepathy, I said
         pulling into the parking lot,
                  looking at you in the mirror.