Snow.

Chance of precipitation – 87%.

Chance of a day off from school tomorrow – 100%.

Chance of my cooking “snow-day bacon” and French toast – 98%.

Chance of my son wanting to build a sledding path, regardless of temperature, wind, or personal safety – 91%.

Chance of my collaborating with my daughter on our world famous Italian Wedding Soup – 97%.

Chance of reading over 200 pages tomorrow – 34%.

Chance of a lengthy list of domestic projects, courtesy of my wife – 96%.

Chance of my lovingly reminding my wife that the French toast and bacon breakfast, as well as the homemade Italian Wedding Soup dinner, should liberate me from other chores – 87%.

Chance of my wife giving me her stock look of disapproval – 77%.

Chance of helping my son finish his 1387-piece “Imperial Star Destroyer” Lego set – 68%.

Chance of expending 74% of my mental energy on limiting my son’s screen time – 74%.

Chance of Facebook being littered with thoughtless clichés about snow – 100%.

Chance of my sarcastic response to the aforementioned clichés, reminding my 672 “friends” that snow in New England isn’t a novelty, nor should we obsess about bread and milk – 86%.

Chance of my wondering to myself at Market Basket, “Why bread and milk? Has the weather report infected the region with a French-toast-fetish?” – 71%.

Chance of my loving the fact that I just invented the phrase “French-toast-fetish” in this poem – 100%.

Chance of the local weather being on TV constantly, creating an ironic “white” noise – 66%.

Chance of my smiling at the sound of Dean Olson’s voice as she cancels school for the next two days, barely hiding her glee – 86%.

Chance of cabin fever contaminating my home by Wednesday night so that every glance or gesture is interpreted as an invasion of personal space – 89%.

Chance of precipitation – 87%.

Snow.