Whichever way you weigh it, eight ounces is eight ounces
Whether flour or margarine or virgins, light in olive oil
Those blackened disks always come into a balance
That irregular scoop of tin dare not defy
The cast iron weighty scale
But your blue apron, dusty and covered in grease
Reminds me of the smiles
On the day the bread was burnt
When no amount of kneading would have found the underlying texture
Adding even only the tiniest of ounces would have offset the symmetry
