Ingrate They feed me on quince paste and duck à l’orange, on salads of endive and radish and pear on mille-feuilles and sherry and cherry pavlova. They dress me in cufflinks and elegant gowns, in cummerbund splendor. They coif my grey hair. They drape me in satin and pearls and chiffon. I hate their decor and their fine, scented soap I’ll splatter their monogrammed curtains with slop, unravel them, bury them, let them decay; I’ll pestle their pastry, proscuitto, pâté, parboil them down to a pasty purée, commingle them into contrarian soup, then let myself loose in the meadow to gloat as nude as a daisy, as free as a goat.