This is the boy who
climbed onto the counter
(leaning on earnest, scraped knees),
dipped a slice of bread in the batter —
peered into the depths
of all words,
all misgivings,
all bravado,
located the simple, true
plumb line,
pulled up the weight into
the clear light of day for
all to see plain —
and delivered it to me
to make our French toast.