The Farm

Whenever lunch at school was chicken fingers or buffalo wings, kids would make jokes about chickens with fingers and buffalo with wings.
I didn’t, because I knew the ugly truth.
Every visit to Grampa Moreau’s farm was a nightmare.
Chickens clutching at the bars of their cages.
Tiny buffalo flapping around, goring our ankles.
(You do not want to know about the baby back ribs.)
These days, I’m a vegetarian, but I need to be careful. Grampa’s long gone, but out at the farm, his crops still grow.
And that’s why I’m picking the kidney beans out of my salad.