One grows used to sundry annoyances:  gas-
Powered leaf blowers, mufflerless cars,
People at work who believe, without reason,
That one cares at all about with whom they
Live.  One must, in the end, become callous,
A duck, letting all of these affronts roll off
Of one's back, and I have.  I'm a mallard.  
I paddle past everything, almost, but there
Is one toxin my feathers can't block:  
My grand-daughter crying all night.