Ode to the Spaghetti of the Yellow Bar

(Dedicated to Dan, who ate there more than twice.)

As pasta from the Mac’n’Cheese expands,
my stomach groans, my taste-buds grumble loud.
And protesting cruelly, my palate stands.
“Recall,” it says, “The Yellow Bar.” so proud—
is my pallet—of the perfect pasta
it consumed in Florence, in Italia.

Those narrow strands, a touch firm, yet tasty,
homemade pasta, new-fresh from the kitchen,
prepared in the homeland of spaghetti.
And the sauce, oh, the sauce, mmm and amen.
made from the ripest tomatoes diced small;
the brightest red. Fresh parmesan. That’s all.

The Yellow Bar, bright and warm, with paper
placemats to color in, and hungry stomachs
to be filled in. And bread with oil together
and laughter, and Italian voices. Alack!
How I miss that spaghetti; quite the best
I’ve ever had. Yes, the very best.

The End

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