Co/veil/ent
There is a woman who comes to my window, once a day, every day, like clockwork. She stands and she stares, pointing fingers at my family and the misappropriation in the placement of our things. I cannot hear the words she shouts or know the anger she must feel, helpless to communicate the error of our ways. When I go out to shoo her, as I've done on tired days, she is gone before I make it to the door. When I act oblivious to all her futile rage, she takes it out on panes of glass 'til brittle bones pound sore.