by Paul Hostovsky
“Have a blessed day,” she said.
And it sounded new, different, positive-
ly numinous. So I said,
“You have a blessed day, too,”
and I floated out of there
with my coffee and corn muffin
and beatific smile. But now
every time she rings me up
she says it. Every time.
No variation. No shift. No turn.
She just hands me my change
and tells me to have a blessed day.
Always bles-səd, never blest, never
a grateful day, an exquisite day,
an applesome day. A failure
of the imagination is what it is.
And it has begun to bother me.
So much so that I have stopped
going there. I miss their divine
muffins. Their heavenly coffee.
But those blessings had a facile, unctuous,
churchy aftertaste. I’d almost rather
have a nice day. Or even a bad one.