Zeroing the Scale

The flour is a mountain in the bowl

and I’ve forgotten how the numbers go.

Twenty-eight point something for the soul

or just for the crust? I’ll never know.

I tap the glass with a dusty thumb,

the blue light pooling in the measuring cup.

My brain is acting particularly dumb

waiting for the search bar to fill it up.

It’s the same site every single time.

I read the conversion and then it’s gone,

like a bad lyric in a nursery rhyme

that vanishes before the break of dawn.