Superstorm “Pickles,”

messaged me on Snapchat,

he leaves no trace behind,

the messages goes away

in six seconds,

nobody’s gonna nail me for saying

stupid things on Twitter, he says,

chuckling.

he is drifting to Bermuda,

and the Islands, where he will

spent the winter, working on his

new marketing plan.

Got a doo-rag and some new

shades, he says, I need to be warm.

How did I do this month?, he asked,

I bet I got everybody’s attention,

they expected the snow,

but not the cold.

All they talk about is Pickles, me.

The Weather Channel is dying,

to sign me up, we have mugs,

T-shirts, a blog, videos, umbrellas, shovels,

pet-friendly salt, maybe even a deal

with Apple for a weather map in

real time on the new watch,

my agent says not to over-expose,

even a winter like this will be forgotten

three news cycles down the road,

I don’t think so, I told him, I’ve got

a frost so deep that it’s freezing water pipes,

all over the Northeast.

Keep digging, baby,

I love you, and text me

if it starts to rain, plenty

of room down here,

you and the babe have had a rough winter,

I am counting the days till next February,

and by the way, I’d rake that roof,

somebody’s gonna get killed when

that slides off.

Come see me.

Get it?