They're freezing down in Florida stuck in their cars......aka Buffet's gott it Backwards

What happens when your Shangri-La freezes and even your Florida keys won't turn the lock? Ice picks, snow shovels, lanais and pink flamingos. I plan to embrace my besotted common law wife, known to readers as Winter, give her a sloppy wet kiss and a pat on the ass and declare:
Let's get on with it.
How will I ever know if this relationship can work if I don't give it exactly 82 percent of everything I have? I have lanced her boils and sat through her potentially malignant, cloudy mammograms. I have consoled, cajoled, cornered, and caught her; red handed and overcast laying waste to drive and want. I have erased her phone number and then spent the following week waiting for her call and, when she has,
I've answered.
I should dote more, maybe, and hold her handbag. Do the dishes and the linen, learn hospital corners for the bedspread and put a daisy next to the burnt toast for breakfast. Separate, desperate lives not working, I should revel in her months and feed like a remora upon whatever slices of sunlight she throws my way. I should feel lucky that I am used to it. Those poor suckers down south are only being raped, and when she leaves them windburned and chapped lip, they'll be glad to see her go.
She ain't much but she's mines and for as much as I have forsaken her she always returns to put me in my place. Lucid thoughts filtered through the rocks at Trunk River, black ice hiding so you'd better be wary. Rock salt can't win the battle, shovels breaking, souls cursing:
You're a right twat winter, and you should fuck off out of it.
After a nite on the couch you're back in the big bed the next day. She forgives you, which is rare because it normally your act of contrition, and you begrudgingly smile. That fat whore maybe be ugly, but she'll always give you a shot a the title.
And that's enough of a reason to love.