Farmed, to be eaten

Her, “Don’t be looking at me like that.”

Me, “Looking at you how?”

Her, “Like I’m City Chicken.”

Me, “I can assure you I am not considering plating you.”

Her, “I know you have eaten my kind before.”

Me, “I have consumed turkey, chicken, pheasant and duck.”

Her, “See! I knew you feasted on aviators!”

Me, “They were all farmed, to be eaten.”

Her, “And that makes a difference to you?”

Me, “You got something there, I’ll admit.”

Her, “They are still my kind.”

Me, “You have a point, maybe?”

Her, “Stop looking at me like that, I said.”

Me, “Not to worry little City Chicken, you aren’t plump enough for me.”

© Zora Zebic 2016