wasn’t the name of
the bakery but it
could have been–
that’s how it felt to
bite into a bagel after
eight days of dust-filled
mouths chewing dry brittle
crumbs of freedom, never
imagining as we crossed the sea
and wandered in the desert for
forty years that we’d ever reach
the promised land or that it’d be
filled with milk and honey and
bagels on the corner of Broadway
and West 72nd Street.
Bruce Black graduated from Columbia College in New York and Vermont College of Fine Arts. His work has appeared in Elephant Journal, Blue Lyra Review, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Tiferet Journal, The Jewish Exponent, The Jewish Times, Reform Judaism Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives in Sarasota, FL.
this is so funny! i laughed all the way through, and the arrangement of the poem on the page just added to the suspense and empathy i felt. thank you!!
Thanks for the meditation on Bagels and other.
I hope to go to Heaven some day-and find Bagels. With cream cheese no less.
Great work, Bruce! Wonderful images.
Bruce, I love your writings, prose and poetry. Keep on keeping on.
How I love your writing. This is wonderful. Please write more.
Love it, Bruce!!!
Very nice, Bruce! Makes me want to have a bagel, though, I rarely indulge.