morning after St Patrick's Day

It's Sunday, March 18 and I went to Portland for breakfast. I went to Micah's restaurant in the Old Port, a section of town where there are lots of bars, restaurants, and shops. Pricey. Tourists and artists, coffee shops and wharves. I walked around with Fluffy the 13- year-old Sheltie.

So yesterday was St Patrick's Day: looked like it was a wild night in the Old Port. As we walked, I noted the detritus of the bacchanalia: broken green beads, deflated blobs of green balloons, a man's yellow tie, a server's black apron, broken glass, and suffering partiers who stumbled slowly in and out of breakfast cafes or simply sat beside the harbor: head in hands.