Monterey Bay Canners

I ate oysters in both locations, and I had a card.
“Ate” is what you call it, but come on, is it really eating?
We carried stamp cards, a gimmick, with boastful pride,
for each oyster slurped down, progress made toward a free one.
Prisoners of that marketing device, we were slaves
to lemon juice and Tabasco, so much so sometimes
I couldn’t taste those bivalve mollusks at all,
although you’re just supposed to shoot them down anyway.
Those days when only the brave or uniformed chewed,
we watched the barman shuck them, the knife stroked crack
to a potentially bloody thumb depending on expertise, too much
hard work, I could tell, so I’ve never had an oyster since.
Nostalgia smells like the ocean, tastes like citrus and spice,
clutches at cards of stamps collected, the way
we crossed off all our oyster calendar days.