The Hungry One darts,
From billowing tent to billowing tent.
Her sparce hair is spun into pink fluff;
Tanned, knotted legs are twisted bars of salt.

She is pursued by the murmuring midway hordes,
Who are panting for a taste of her sugar and starch.
But the fragile chrysalis is giving none away.

Swaddled in transparently netted skin,
She would consume herself,
Gnawing at her outer casing,
And sucking viscous tallow through a paper straw.

Only then would her sweating predators,
Scamper off for another feeding frenzy,
From those who have something, anything, even a morsel,
To be able to give away.

Jane Wanklin,
1997.