Play the Music of Pasta

It was 50 cents a plate then in neon letters that you couldn't miss even through a fog over window on a cold winter's eve. There was life marinara sauce that smacked to the sea noodles as long as your young arm meatballs as fluffy as your dream of them bread on the table. That was taste before it became a synonym for fashion. And I remember when I wrote it, I was on an airplane in a thunderstorm over Cheyenne, Wyoming. Those were the days my friend and I thought they'd never end.