There’s a poppy seed stuck in
the groove of my front tooth.
It’s been there long enough
to become a kind of friend.
The sesame seeds scatter like
confetti across the pavement,
as if the bagel knows
this isn’t sacred ground—but it could be.
I sit cross-legged on a park bench,
breathing deep the salted air,
wondering if enlightenment tastes
like cream cheese or smoked salmon.
Can the eternal now fit
between bites peppered with garlic
and onion dust that clings
to my shoulder like a whisper?
What if Nirvana is not a hymn,
but the crunch of crust between teeth,
a moment so ordinary it
becomes the sublime by accident?
The everything bagel teaches me
exactly that—a messy perfection.