I’m not even half Irish; I don’t always wear green. This day they say everybody is Irish when most are not. I don’t even drink like I used to drink, but remember when I did, back aching from warehouse work only a string of beers helped cure, surrounded by men just like me, all of whom came here before going home; all wearing bits of green and wondering why I won’t, all circling this circular bar, forced to see ourselves in the overly large mirror at the center, or look at each other across it, grim people, gray more than green, trying not to look back, staring down into our beer mugs as if we might find tea leaves there and our misfortune.
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