By James Allen, The sawdust Sage

As I wander the market, a number of questions are forced to mind.

The aisle hums with folding tables and optimism.

Pop-up tents bloom like cautious mushrooms.

Somewhere a Square reader chirps with the confidence

of someone else’s discretionary income.

Who is buying the crochet toilet-paper roll covers?

I was sure those vanished when Great Aunt Carol did,

tucked into whatever afterlife handles acrylic yarn

and decorative bathroom decisions.

Why are there twelve 3D-printed trinket vendors?

Their tables glow in identical neon gradients,

plastic dragons guarding plastic fidgets

like a very polite invasion.

And how do they all think $5.99 for a keychain is a bargain?

(There must be a seminar somewhere titled

Step one: download the same designs from Etsy.)

Cookie vendors make sense.

Warm sugar travels on the air like a legal bribe.

A growling stomach will sign that petition

without reading it —

initial here, date there,

no further questions from the jury.

A coffee roaster is a great add —

deep, righteous, small-batch confidence

rolling off the beans.

But they’re half a block away

from the cheesecake vendor,

which feels less like planning

and more like a deliberate test

of loyalty — or cardio — or both.

You can watch it happen in real time —

people torn between frosting and caffeine,

doing quiet math with their willpower

and losing.

Coolers thump open, then closed.

Cash boxes clink.

Somewhere a child negotiates aggressively

for something made entirely of glitter

and future regret.

And yet somehow…

I’m the only oven-squirrel vendor.

A lone species in a habitat

full of carbs, plastic, and nostalgia.

I stand at my table,

surrounded by honest wood grain

and the faint smell of finish and patience,

watching the tide of shoppers roll past

in waves of tote bags and good intentions.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

Craft shows, however,

seem perfectly comfortable

with twelve identical dragons

and exactly one oven squirrel.