Small town fair

 The fair ground used to be just an abandoned paddock between highways
Now they've cut into the rough bush behind it to extend the area
The stalls are dense with homemade goods
But the stall owners force themselves to be personable

On suspicion you are not interested in their goods
They avoid even greeting as if it would be privilege
They were expecting sales to happen naturally
reorganizing their goods on their benches

The stall owners used colorful signs
Their idosyncracies scuttle between jars
Their small town gossip crawls over packets
Their carping eyes reflect in the bottles

They make you feel whole again with that chirpy tone
when they think you intend to buy something
Suddenly you are a special neighbor
perhaps overlooked and under appreciated

Until you have the nerve to negotiate
Then you are once again the outsider
probably a practitioner of witchcraft
They snuggle into their windbreakers

looking out toward the overpass
pretending the perfect customer is afoot
About to buy the lot and send in the reporters
To discuss how incredible their conserves really are