sometimes i think about

the morning when i walked into the shop and my assistant
led me over to a burlap bag of coffee, look at this,
he said, and it wasn’t coffee.
150 pounds of fair trade organic pure cocaine.
what should we do, he asked.
hold on, i said, and i grabbed a dolly and rolled
the bag outside and loaded it in my car and drove
off, and i never saw any of them again.
sometimes i wonder if they kept the shop
running or gave up and closed it down.
sometimes i remember what my name used to be
but i’m dimitri korsakov now, and i mostly live
on a boat in the sea and write stories and drink
bourbon and stare at the moon.
i hope they remember me as fondly
as i remember them.
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