A golden shell filled with cream oozing out the back stands alone on a glass platform.
A pearly pile of sparkling dishes tower as if leaning in Pisa.
A chef named Guytano holds back a salty rainfall from his eyes, rolling a final dough.

The black, spindling, iron seats now pushed in tightly—clean of crimson sauce splatters.
The red tiles on the checkerboard floor mopped with suds—absent of loose pepperoni.
The lights dwindled dim—veiling the Tuscan village delicately painted on the walls.

A team of three toss a tablecloth, three parachuting motions, three creases flattened.
A table for two, a red bottle for two, and empty plates for two.
A board for one cutting blade, an oven for one final disc, a job for one pair of hands.

The bubbling cheese turns gold—it’s aroma darts past marble pillars in the dining room. 
The chef whisks away a pile of flour and the flurries descend like a winter’s snow.
The pie blanketed in crisp mushrooms and sausage is extracted from a now empty oven.

A table with years of smiles, 37 of them, laugh for a final time in that spot.
A toothy grin springs beneath Guytano’s grey-peppered mustache; a crystal droplet fled his eye.
A pair of warm embraces grasp him with love; his first satisfied customers were now his last.

The chef’s red-speckled hat hung on the rusted, gold hook—never to be worn again.
The battered loafers on his feet vacated the exit as he flipped the sign to read ‘closed.’
The ‘out of business’ sign on the street beside contained a deluge of drawings with sad faces.

A passenger seat hoisting a crinkled, brown bag containing one final dish.
A flight of stairs Guytano ascends; following the sound of his granddaughter’s sad sniffles.
A despair dissolves when a golden shell filled with cream oozing out the back is set upon her lap.