Everything Bagel

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.