Cheesy 80s summers.

Little hat tight pants short sleeves and

guess what?

A tie to boot, but no boots,
just my mom’s old running shoes I fit into.

My cheese attire for the cheese place I worked at in high school.

Those summers, three summers I worked at a famous place, a place
famous for its fromage, hometown-made, methane air proofing the ocean breeze.

Nope, I didn’t scoop the icy cream,
nope I didn’t swirl the creamy shakes,
nope, I didn’t assembly line the squeaky cheese,

But

yep, I bussed the tables and
yep, I washed the dishes, and
yep, I got free ice cream every shift,

and often a grilled cheese sandwich too,
those were the cheesy days of summer,

until they busted the building down and built it brand new, and now it’s probably better,

and I’d like to think I am now too.

But I have to pay for my ice cream and grilled cheese now. Not everything’s better.